


HARP

by TheHatefulM8s



Series: Jaegerlied [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Beast End, Color War, Entrance Exam, F/F, F/M, Faunus Rights Revolution, Gen, Ninjas of Love, OC Team, dust - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatefulM8s/pseuds/TheHatefulM8s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Welcome to Beacon Academy." </p>
<p>This was the greeting that ushered four strangers from wildly different worlds through the same open doors. Each of them walked through them knowing the risks. The ancient order of Grimm hunters had been dying out for years, yet the Grimm were only growing in numbers and claiming more innocent lives every day. Nonetheless, they heard the call to become a slayer of man's oldest enemy. They will learn from these halls the most valuable of lessons: Who are their greatest allies, what are they really made of, and where do their truest enemies lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fortunate son of a wealthy household decides to run away with the help of his most trusted friend.

Transcript  
\-------------------------------------  
Name: Hessian Pinion Crane VII  
Address: Crane Manor, Hessian Cliffs  
Age: 17  
Weaponry: The Finalword and Nock Six-Shot Duelist  
Fighting Style: Dance of Two Rivers  
Status: Accepted  
\-------------------------------------

Outside the thunder growled like a dreaming dog and muffled the fugitive footsteps of young Hessian Crane. Lightning lit the room and froze him in his tracks, right in the hard gaze of his great grandfather's portrait. Ashen Crane glared hard into his descendant's wide gray eyes.

He moved one step at a time, barely breathing as the ball of his foot pressed against the stairs. Each mahogany step whined so loudly that he was certain all ten generations of dead Cranes must've heard it. He breathed easily but quietly when he stood safely on the grand rug in the foyer. He'd spent the last week secreting items into a large steamer trunk, and with the prep work completed it was time to make his escape. The doors of the manor loomed black and imposing above him, but beyond was the pounding rain and the road to Beacon Academy. It is with great pleasure, the letter had intoned, that we invite you to hone your skills amongst peers of talent at the Hunters' Academy of Beacon. Goosebumps rose at the thought of taking the final step and leaving home behind. Hessian's easy smile corrupted into a grin as he realized he had a rare opportunity. The young man crept from the foyer into his father's study and groped along the furniture until he found the liquor cabinet. His father hardly ever touched it, save for get-togethers with fellow Generals and the visiting elite of Vale. Hessian filled with rebellious pride when he clutched the nearest bottle's neck and heard the contents burble softly inside the green glass. He rolled the smooth liquor bottle over in his palms and watched the amber liquid slide around invitingly. He read the label and wandered back into the foyer mouthing the words: "Applegate Whiskey". The bottle nearly fell from his grasp when a figure emerged from the shadows and blinded him with a flashlight.

Months of careful planning began to slip between his fingers like the bottle of pilfered liquor. His heart turned to lead and dropped into his stomach. He'd been so careful for so long, spent sleepless nights packing his trunk in secret. He'd even fed his parents lies about visiting friends in Vale as a ploy to take the Beacon Entrance Exam.

"I can explain," he nervously licked his lips. A mechanical foot softly whirred between the thunderclaps. Hessian noticed the slight left lean of the shadow and relief flooded his lungs until he nearly laughed out loud. It was just Corvo. The middle aged Faunus had been standing behind a suit of armor, almost as if he was a piece of the manor itself. He was dressed in a pair of dark slacks with a matching vest buttoned up over a neat white shirt.

"Hessian Crane," it was more an accusation than a greeting. Corvo was unhappy and he made that clear by snatching the Applegate Whiskey from his hands. "I didn't teach you to be a thief!" the South Vytali accent made the word "thief" into a hiss.The Crane family's butler had known Hessian since he was a toddler with scabby knees and did not stand on ceremony. Hessian had grown in the last few years but Corvo found a way to tower over him and the stern gaze of Corvo's yellow eyes made him feel five years old. Grey had stolen into the impeccable black hair and age accented the thin width of his long arms.

Corvo walked the stolen bottle to the liquor cabinet, ever the dutiful butler. Hesh gazed at the floor until he saw the stick-thin bird feet step back into view. One natural, black and boney with talons and the other a metal replica that buzzed with wires. Corvo presented another bottle, smaller and a deeper shade of green. The words "Old Nevermore" were on the front.

"I've never liked cider, but it would have been rude to refuse your mother's gift." Hessian accepted the bottle with a puzzled grin, "You might say I'm simply re-gifting, provided you drink responsibly young master." Corvo allowed a small smile, but his brows came together as he chastised his young charge. "Hesh," he sighed, "I know this is all rather dramatic, but remember why you're going to all this trouble." The hall was filled with the machine gun rattle of rain and the artillery booms of thunder. Hesh cleared his throat softly and nodded.

"Independence, not defiance. I remember. Do you think my mother and father suspect?" The words sounded strange in place of mom and dad, but something about this whole secret meeting demanded a more mature bearing.

" Hesh. Breathe a little." Corvo squeezed his ward's shoulder with his spindly fingers and Hesh exhaled. Gainsboro Crane had been against his son joining the Hunters since Hesh first broached the subject at dinner almost a year ago.

"I'm fine. Let's get going," Hesh said. Beacon Academy awaited him. The Hunters ranks were calling to him over the pleas of his father and the raging tempest. Corvo nearly chuckled as Hesh squared his shoulders. The boy would be shocked to know how much he resembled his father.

Corvo ushered Hesh through the trophy room, where dozens of creatures were mounted. From Vacuon Apes to Mistralese Stags, the Crane family had accumulated a number of creatures over the centuries. Hesh's eyes lingered on a small box over the mantle where a pair of medals rested on velvet.The emerald V on a ribbon was for outstanding service in the Vale military. Said pin of swords was awarded to a victor of many battles. Gainsboro Crane did not talk about the War of Menagerie - the Faunus Rights Revolution - in front of his wife or son, but as a child Hesh heard him whisper with Corvo of their shared history during that bloody conflict.

"Hesh?" the teen jolted as Corvo shook him from his thoughts and pressed an umbrella into his hands. They stepped into the kitchen, Corvo's white-tiled domain around every meal. The smell of tomatoes and peppers were still fresh in the air from dinner, and it made Hesh remember his empty stomach. He'd barely eaten a bite, spending all of dinner staring at anything but his father. He watched a sheet of rain slide down one of the big bay windows. Hesh's stomach growled loudly, which drew an arched brow from Corvo.

"I'm fine. I'll eat on the train," he flushed. Corvo plucked an apple from an ornate fruit bowl left by the backdoor. He slipped it into Hesh's pocket even as the young man protested.

"The sky is furious tonight. You can hear the waves from the manor." said Corvo. He began to drape a gray overcoat on Hesh's shoulders. The teen shrugged away and insisted Corvo needn't treat him like a child. The Faunus obeyed quietly and presented him with a knitted cap that fit firmly over his ears. Corvo doffed a coal cap and a matching overcoat before throwing open the door. Thunder roared into the kitchen and Hesh struggled to open his umbrella against the wind. They stood in the downpour and, true to Corvo's words, Hesh heard waves battering the cliffs meters below them. It was a hard walk across the sprawling grounds of the Crane Estate. In the dark of the storm, battered night statues of Cranes long since dead were bleak and grim. The wind caused the bushes to scratch at the gravel pathways and the willows dotted across the lawn billowed like the gown of a phantom bride.

The barn smelled like hay and manure but it was dry, the drip-drop of a leak excluded. Gunpowder nickered in his stall and scraped his hoof at Hesh's familiar scent. Corvo had already saddled his black mare, Seine, and she stood cocking her ears at the thunderclaps and rain. Armistice, his father's bay, snorted and tossed his head as if disapproving of the whole affair.

"Hey, boy," Hesh chided his tarpan as he nosed for the apple in his pocket before fetching some green pellets from his saddlebags and appeaseing Gunpowder. He pulled the saddle strap across the round, white belly and tightened the buckle. "Corvo, did my trunk make it to the station?" the Faunus was stroking Seine's nose and had gotten lost in thought. He was thinking about the morning to come and how Gainsboro and Isabella would bombard him with questions.

"Just before dinner, Hesh" Corvo answered after clearing his throat. A ghost of guilt followed him throughout the day and was clinging to his shoulders like his wet overcoat. The boy entrusted to him for over a decade was leaving, and Gainsboro would be furious when he heard. He was betraying his best friend, no doubt about that. But was it such a sin to betray your best friend to help his only child? He put on a false smile when Hesh asked him a question.

"I asked you how I did." Hesh repeated, "Did I get the packing right?" Hesh fed Gunpowder a bridle and wiped the drool off his hand. His chest swelled at the thought of packing by himself, like a man. He'd be fighting Grimm soon and figured he could handle that much. Corvo informed him he'd forgotten his dress shoes, toothbrush, and extra underwear.

"I also took the liberty of removing the sheets and towels you packed. The school will provide this, you can be sure." Hesh hid behind Gunpowder's neck and brushed the horse down, pouting in silence. He climbed onto the saddle and Corvo threw open the doors. All three of the horses neighed at the sudden rush of wind and water, but Hesh and Corvo reined in their mounts. Corvo's avian feet made driving impossible and Hesh didn't have a license.

Corvo spurred Seine with a touch of talon and Hesh kicked Gunpowder. Eight hooves scattered mud and water across the long driveway of the Crane Estate. Hesh squinted against the rain and pulled the cap down over his ears. Even when they cleared the gate, he expected to look over his shoulder and see his father reaching out to snatch him off his horse.

They reached Taupe Station in half an hour. The platform was lightly crowded, but a young upper-class boy with a Faunus servant at his heels raised no suspicions.  
Corvo collected the steamer trunk and rolled it out on a dolly. He waited on a bench while Hesh paced back and forth. The station bustled around them and an hour passed by until midnight brought a warning whistle from an approaching train. Hesh's 12:15 express train to Vale.

There was no one left on the platform but the duo and a night watchman. Corvo rose and opened Hesh's steamer trunk. The young man stopped and watched his mentor curiously and his eyes widened.  
The sabre was sheathed in a scabbard the color of blood and the gold hilt glinted in the station lights. Hesh stared at the blade and his slack jaw formed no words. Corvo cleared his throat a little too loudly and handed Hesh his prized possession.

"The final adjustment I made to your luggage." The corners of his mouth tugged upwards at the sight of Hesh holding the Finalword. "You need a blade worthy of a Hunter. They'll sing no songs about just any weapon. They need a named sword," Hesh began to make a feeble protest, but Corvo simply shook his head. "It'd gather dust in my closet otherwise. I only fight straw soldiers these days." Corvo hid his watery eyes by looking down at his watch. "Well Master Hesh, it's time you got aboard. You mustn't miss your train after all this trouble."

The train rolled into the station and rumbled to a stop. Rainwater cascaded down the engine and the doors opened to accept new boarders. Hesh's feet were stuck to the cement of the platform. There was no going back if he got on this train. Corvo grasped his shoulder.

"You are ready for this Hessian." the whistle sounded and called the passengers aboard. "I wouldn't let you go if you weren't." So many callously saw him as the butler, nothing but the family's servant. Hesh had grown underneath the watchful eye of this butler. He embraced him but the train whistled a sharp warning and cut their farewell short.

"Chasses-Bien, Hessian Crane." Corvo said in his native language. The Hunter's Farewell was sacred, so Hesh returned it in kind.

"Trouves-Victoire, Corvo LaSable." the train whistled a shrill warning once more and he hurried aboard to find his seat. As the train pulled away, it took every fiber of Hesh's being to keep his eyes off the window after he gave Corvo a short wave goodbye. As Corvo walked the horses home, the rain seemed to fall heavier.


	2. A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young daughter of the wilderness says fond farewells before she departs for the mighty city of Vale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: RWBY and its characters are not owned by us. OCs created by Homer Evergreen. Special thanks to Hector for editing.  
> -Homer Evergreen

\---------------------------------------

Name: Azeban Resinosa Quinn  
Age: 16  
Address: High Crimson Confederation, Mistral  
(No Permanent Address. Advance to Mistral Post Service.)  
Weaponry: Dawnlander  
Fighting Style: Arboreal Advanced  
Status: Accepted.

\----------------------------------------

Up. The curved blade sliced across the armpit of an imaginary Beowolf, severing the artery. In her mind’s eye, the glistening edge of her glaive was stained dark with oily blood as the Grimm howled out its last desperate breath. Azeban Quinn huffed loudly, and pictured a new enemy sneaking up on her.

Behind. She thrust the pole backwards and skewered the eyeball of an imagined Ursa, then mimed wrenching the spike free before pirouetting; the glaive twirled in her hands and sliced its jugular vein. She pretended the sound of the Grimm falling would’ve echoed against the redwood trees.

Retract. She compressed a button on the middle of the Dawnlander, and the spike and blade rushed to meet each other. Azeban inspected her weapon for any damage and snapped it onto her belt. She wiped her brow and sat cross-legged amidst the pine needles on the forest floor, so she could stare at the trees reaching up to the sky.

Redwoods towered over her, their thick branches covered in maroon pine needles. She closed her eyes and her raccoon ears twitched as she listened to the sounds of High Crimson. In a nearby tree, baby birds were chirping at their mother for breakfast, and below them a black bear scratched its back against the bark. A hare was chewing on some berries as a fox crept up on it.

The robin eggs and honeyed bacon she’d wolfed down for breakfast had given her a surge of energy. She’d slipped away from the camp to exercise a little and take her mind off the tedium of waiting. It was only her mother and grandmother accompanying her, and the quiet woods spoke of it. The rest of the Quinns, her father and brothers, were deeper in the forest making camp with another family. She’d said goodbye to them the night before. 

The squish of grass beneath sandals entered her ears, and she glanced down an alley of trees. From the slate grey ears atop her head down to the red sandals, the woman was Azeban’s mirror image in appearance, if not for age. Sibosek’s red shawl fluttered around her as she kept a brisk pace towards her daughter.

“Did you turn off your Vellum?” Sibosek called with a voice that wasn’t angry as much as concerned. Azeban somersaulted into a stand to pop her joints and face her mother before she answered. 

“I always turn my Vellum off when I’m practicing,” she said and picked up the bulky phone hanging from her hip. It was light green, like all the Vellums her family used. The military hardware was cheap but reliable which suited the Quinns for their lifestyle. Her father, Glooskap, had picked them up in bulk from a friend in the Mistralese Army. Most of the High Crimson Confederation looked to Military Surplus stores to find the gear required for their rough upbringing.

“Azeban,” Sibosek’s voice was low and dangerous, “never when you’re alone!” It was one of the Quinn family’s most sacred rules, and a general fact of life among the High Crimson Faunus: Always be in contact. Not even her parents were above this rule. Once, her father had gone fishing “wanting some peace and quiet.” Sibosek had dragged him home by his ear and practically grounded him for a month.

“Sorry mom.” Azeban’s ears drooped and she looked at her feet. Her mother crossed her arms resolutely and the wood carving in her marriage braid clinked when she shook her head. 

“Don’t try to be cute, daughter of mine,” she said and motioned for her to follow, “we’re both lucky your grandmother isn’t awake yet.” That was a surprise; Sequoia Quinn was usually up with the sun. Azeban just assumed her grandmother was off meditating somewhere. Age really was catching up to her if she was sleeping in. 

“Grandma was the one who always told me to turn my Vellum off.” She groused and immediately winced when Sibosek’s frown deepened. Her mother and grandmother didn’t need another reason to argue, but she’d gone ahead and supplied one. Azeban meekly retrieved her crimson shawl --stitched and re-stitched by her mother-- and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“The Huntress should know better than anyone else.” Sibosek only called her mother the Huntress when she was particularly steamed. Azeban felt her eggs and bacon churn in her stomach at the thought of Sequoia and Sibosek fighting again. They passed the next few minutes in silence, and Azeban watched the animals in the trees. 

“Watch them carefully,” her grandmother would say. “When a deer bolts or a fox darts off, it’s a sign of something. If birds take flight, you must know why. The animals will know well before you do if they are coming.”

Grimm stalked the woods of High Crimson, and acted as both protector and predator for the Confederation. Grimm were ravenous monsters, snapping at their heels and stalking their every movement, but at the same time they were the source of their freedom. No human dared enter High Crimson, and the Confederation preferred this sense of privacy.

“Mom,” Sibosek glanced at her, “Is it true that there’s an entire neighborhood of Faunus in Vale?” She’d been reading tourist pamphlets about Vale, courtesy of her older brother. They espoused historical tours and “The World’s Largest Ferris Wheel” at Sunset Shore, but they said nothing about this place called “Beast End”. 

Her mother stopped dead in her tracks and looked askance at her. Sibosek chewed her tongue anxiously before answering.

“Yes. And you must promise me you won’t go there,” Azeban prepared to protest. Sibosek held up a finger and stared at her with stern eyes that held a flicker of fear that Azeban hardly ever saw in her mother.

“Azeban, you must stay within the school grounds” Sibosek hesitated, “at least until you make enough friends to walk about the city.” Azeban rolled her eyes. Sibosek narrowed hers in response.

“I mean it, girl,” she scolded while pointing back at the redwoods, “the forest is nothing like the world outside. A day in the capital does not make you a cosmopolitan!” After she’d passed the Entrance Exam, Azeban and her brother explored the city of Arche. She begged her older brother Miko for one more day in the city, so she could take in the marble buildings and ancient statues. Sibosek, determined to be heard and heeded, stepped in front of her daughter.

“The human world is dangerous,” Sibosek’s eyes softened, “they won’t see past your ears and your tail.” Azeban crossed her arms beneath her shawl.

“I can handle some stares and whispers.” She tossed her head as if the notion was an unpleasant smell and her tail flicked the air.

“Azeban, the travelers we’ve met in the forest don’t reflect the world outside,” Sibosek frowned, “they do nothing because we outnumber them. In Vale, you’ll be on your own.” Azeban dug the heels of her sandals into the soft earth.

“Mom you’re acting paranoid. If anyone gives me any trouble-,” Sibosek didn’t let her finish.

“Azeban!” her yell scared a flock of birds into the air. Where she expected to see fury, Azeban again saw that unfamiliar fear. Her mother had given birth to seven children and raised each of them in High Crimson. She did not scare easily. 

“Please don’t fight me on this. Just do as I tell you.” Sibosek pinched the bridge of her nose and walked on in silence. Although Azeban glared at the back of her mother’s head, she said no more for the time being. They might have passed the whole morning giving each other the silent treatment if not for Sequoia Quinn. She was gray haired and approaching 68, but she had completely packed up their camp by herself. She was among the third generation of Faunus to live in the woods and treated it as one giant house. Garbage in one corner of High Crimson was like garbage on the kitchen floor. 

“At last,” Sequoia tossed her granddaughter a worn army duffle bag, “keep those on hand. You’ve got your Dawnlander with you, I hope?” The old Huntress was as bad about the glaive as her mother was about her Vellum. Azeban spun in a circle and her shawl fluttered above the glaive, securely strapped to her hip. 

“Good girl, Azeban.” Sequoia gestured to Sibosek, “We’ll miss the airship if we dawdle.” Sibosek scowled and climbed into the cab of their Caterpillar, a stark rectangle of metal on six sturdy wheels, to begin the process of revving its engine. The truck roared through the forest’s stillness and was followed by the smell of diesel. 

“She’d have been ready sooner if she hadn’t turned her phone off to train.” The edge in her voice could’ve sliced through wood, but Sequoia retained her quiet annoyance at their tardiness. The ride to the forest’s edge wouldn’t be any better than the ride out yesterday had been.

Azeban crawled into the Caterpillar’s second row of seats. The military vehicle was was the only thing tough enough to navigate High Crimson. Like the Vellum, it was equipment that the Faunus claimed and personalized. Handprints in red paint and drawings of forest animals dotted the sides, courtesy of Azeban and her brothers. Her mother barked at her to buckle up, but she quietly rebelled.

Sequoia took her spot next to Sibosek, but they didn’t exchange words. They stewed together in unspoken frustration. Azeban again wondered what their life must’ve been like as a family. Sibosek usually spoke of Azeban’s late grandfather, Pesgawan, more often than her still living grandmother. 

The truck crawled over a highway of roots and rough grass. Azeban jolted in her seat, stifling a gasp. The quiet was hanging heavy on the morning once more and Azeban was determined to avoid it. She piped up from her seat while clinging to the edges with her short claws. Suddenly she regretted leaving her seatbelt unbuckled.

“Grandma, do you think the city’s changed much since you went to Beacon?” 50 years had passed since then, along with civil unrest and a war. Sequoia glanced into the back and considered her granddaughter carefully. She watched the young teen bounce on her seat but made no comment. Grandma Sequoia was content to let lessons teach themselves.

“I spent most of my time on the campus. Studying. The Confederation wasn’t sending me to a college. They were paying for my tutelage as a Huntress.” The unspoken words hung in the air as Azeban’s ears twitched nervously. She grasped for a different subject.

“Mom says the city’s dangerous.” Her mother’s tail twitched against the seat, but she didn’t take her eyes off the forest. Sequoia nodded slightly.

“It has its dangers, yes. No Grimm roaming it, but I hear stories from the other Hunters.” Sequoia examined her claws. “Mostly problems in Beast End.” Sibosek slammed her fist on the Caterpillar’s horn, and the sudden honk startled a herd of row deer out of the way. 

“East End, mother,” Sibosek growled, “the Faunus neighborhood is called ‘East’ End.” Sequoia shrugged her shoulders and cracked her knuckles. 

“Who can keep track of what the Humans call it.” Sequoia looked back at Azeban, “Call it Beast End, girl. Defang a snake and it’s harmless.” Sibosek drove towards the pillars of sunlight that marked High Crimson’s northeastern edge. 

“Mother, stop it!” Sequoia finally looked at her daughter and quirked an eyebrow. 

“You’d prefer she shrink away from it? She’s a Quinn woman, Sibosek. Beyond that, she is to be a Huntress. What bigot can say they’ve faced Grimm?” Azeban smiled and sat up a little straighter in her seat. Sibosek was livid.

“You’re supposed to be experienced, aren’t you? The stories out of places like Beast End-” Sequoia interrupted her. 

“Aren’t important to us. We are not submissive, my girl, and you knew that once.” Sibosek slammed on the breaks and Azeban fell forward with a yelp. She narrowly avoided smashing her head against the floor. Sibosek whirled in her seat with concern quickly morphing into anger.

“Have I just been speaking to myself all morning?” she growled. Sunlight shone in through the windshield. Azeban’s mother kicked open her door and leapt to the ground below with a thud. Sequoia followed suit. 

“Get your bags!” Sibosek shouted as she stormed out into the fields. The young girl moved quickly to comply and was left alone to sulk. She needed Miko’s help with this, or at least a sympathetic ear. She scrambled for her Vellum and dialed his number, tapping her foot impatiently when the ringtone sounded. A static crackle was followed by her brother’s voice.

“Hey, Twig.” Miko’s voice was deep like their father’s. “Calling to say goodbye?” Azeban stepped around the driver’s seat and crouched down in the doorway.

“Yes…and to ask for some advice.” Azeban climbed down the big wheel and landed feet first on the dirt. 

“Shoot.” Her brother was picking up their dad’s lingo, too. 

“Grandma and Mom-” her brother groaned. As the eldest child, Miko was more exhausted by these arguments than she was. 

“What now?” Azeban stretched. The birds their truck had frightened away flew back to their nests and she watched them as she explained.

“I mentioned a Faunus neighborhood in Vale. Mom just kept telling me to drop it-” Azeban leaned back against the Caterpillar’s grill.

“And you didn’t,” her brother’s tone bordered playfulness. 

“-so I brought it up when we were in the Caterpillar with Grandma.” Miko was silent for a minute, shocking Azeban for the third time that morning. 

“Twig, listen to mom about Beast End,” Azeban screamed in frustration and kicked up some dead leaves. 

“Miko, not you too!” 

“There’s nothing to see or do in Beast End, Twig. It’s all muggers and White Fang fanatics.” Among the High Crimson Faunus, the White Fang were perhaps more controversial than it was among humans. 

“Fine. Whatever. I won’t go.” Her brother had traveled more than most of the people she knew. Only her father had traveled more, from the time when he lived in Arche. A lightbulb then clicked on inside Azeban’s brain.

“Miko, is this about what happened to dad’s family?” Glooskap treated life like a beautiful adventure. He made friends with traders and sang songs in different languages. His smile was warm and made her feel safe, but even his bright eyes grew dark when anyone talked about his family. 

He had spoken briefly about a brother once, but whenever Azeban tried to remember the name it became garbled in her memory. She could never think of him as her uncle, no matter how hard she tried. The same could be said of her paternal grandparents. They were odd, Mistralese names that didn’t have a face or a voice to remember them by.

“No,” Miko said quickly, “or at least not entirely. Azeban, out there people don’t know you like we do. You can be a stubborn, headstrong smartass.” She blew a raspberry into the receiver. Miko laughed and blew one right back. He quieted and spoke seriously.

“Twig, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. There are good humans out there, I know it.” Azeban smiled. 

“Give mom a hug, that’ll cheer her up. As for Grandma, you’re on your own.” They shared a final goodbye and the Vellum went silent. Sibosek called for Azeban again, louder and more urgently this time. Azeban emerged into the fields of tall grass that blanketed the shore of Titan’s Lake. A day’s trip across it was Arche, but she was heading west this morning. Her mother waved to her and she raced over.

Sibosek couldn’t keep a smile away when she watched her daughter’s curtain of black hair bounce around her ears. She remembered passing a comb through it and how Azeban, just a sprout no older than seven, fussed when it caught at a knot. Pine needles lost in the tresses fell to the forest floor. Sibosek caught herself reminiscing again. She’d already sent Miko off into the world years before, and now this was the second child she was letting go.

But this is different. She’s the only daughter I have. 

“Call us often. We’ll try to keep you updated on our movements. If things go the way we want, we’ll be heading further south in a month or two when the weather starts changing.” Azeban nodded, though her eyes never left the horizon. She’d never gotten use to just how wide the sky was outside the forests.

“You don’t need to worry so much, mom. It’ll all turn out fine,” Sibosek smiled weakly. Azeban was her father’s child through and through. She was as bright as a sunbeam after a rainstorm.

“I have worried about you since you learned to walk.” Sibosek softened and she reached up to grasp the redwood token around her neck. It was Azeban’s gift to her when she’d first mastered woodcarvings. The smooth wood was broken up by the outline of the letter A and triangular leaf characters that they’re family favored. Miko had carved her one and Azeban’s younger brothers would as well, each one a reminder of her children. Azeban kissed her mother on the cheek and wrapped her tightly in a hug. 

“I can watch out for myself, mama. You say so all the time.” Sibosek didn’t snatch her back when she pulled away, though she’d wanted to. Azeban fixed her own hair and then tucked some of Sibosek’s back behind her ear.

“I trust you, Azeban Quin. I do not trust the city you’re traveling to. But I do want you to see as much of it as you can. You deserve that, my good girl.” Her face grew pinched with worry. She cupped her daughter’s chin and looked her straight in the eyes.

“Just try to be safe, Azeban. Listen to your instructors. I wish the world was safe enough for you to walk anywhere…” Sequoia grasped Azeban’s shoulder and for once agreed with her daughter.

“Your mother is right, of course. Avoiding danger is not running from it.” Sibosek smiled at her mother.

“And your grandmother wasn’t wrong about being proud of who you are. Forget what kind of ears you have. You are a Quinn. You’re strong and smart.” Azeban grinned at them both.

“And also very stubborn,” Azeban added. Sibosek laughed and swatted her on the shoulder before sharing in one last hug. There was no name for the potent brew of pride and worry that rushed through her.

“There they are!” Sequoia shouted. They looked up and, sure enough, a tiny grey speck was cruising towards them over the giant sapphire bowl of Titan’s Lake.  
Trees trembled and grass bowed low to the mighty gusts of wind the turbines emitted. 

She clambered up the ramp and a dog Faunus took her bags from her. They had hired some old friends, Faunus who owned a shipping company, to take her with them. She turned and waved to her mother and grandmother, as well as the whole forest behind them. The turbines were too loud to shout over and they made Azeban’s eyes tear up.

Though strangely enough, even after they had lifted off and cruised away, Azeban still found tears on her cheeks. The damn turbines must’ve gotten some dirt in them. They stopped when she fell asleep in her seat and began to have dreams of Vale. Imaging a city she’d never seen.

Back on the ground, Sibosek and Sequoia watched the airship vanishing into the backdrop of blue sky. Sibosek smiled in spite of her tears and took a shuttering breath to calm herself. 

“Hunt Well, Azeban Quinn,” she said. 

“And find Victory.” Sequoia finished the phrase and walked back toward the tree line while Sibosek stayed a few minutes longer. When the airship had disappeared completely she clutched her daughter’s token. Pesgawan had warned her about this the night before she married Glooskap.

The fear of watching your fledgling fall is nothing compared to the pride of seeing them take wing. But when they can fly, you must watch them fly away. That feeling, my girl, is stronger than either. 

Sibosek dried her eyes and marched back toward High Crimson. She had other responsibilities to take care of, and no more time to waste.


	3. R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Dust Miners descend into the earth in search of their fortune but find honorific dangers instead.

R

\----------------------------------------

Name: Rhodizite Tungsten Henry 

Age: 16 

Address: Annis-Cloch, Atlas 

Weapon: Polly-Anne 

Fighting Style: Atlesian Berserker 

Status: Accepted 

\----------------------------------------

Dust.

Gems the size of a fingernail hold the heat of a volcanic eruption, the impact of a hurricane, or the strength of a thousand year old stone. The fantastic mineral was used for warfare, fashion, and almost any other conceivable purpose. An Atlesian businessman once said "Every vein of Dust is really a vein of gold."

Whether they're a model wearing a dress shimmering with electricity or a soldier with a clip of incendiary bullets, no one really considers where that Dust came from. But that's all anyone cared about in Ainnis-Cloch.

"Bastard machine!" Annie kicked the man-carrier's square hood. Her work boots made a sharp ring through ought the cavern. Rhod looked up from his lunch, wiped some chicken grease from his chin, and chuckled. Annie turned with a harsh look, green eyes blazing beneath her helmet.

"Foreman won't appreciate you dinging up our ride," he warned in a sing-song tone. The woman sneered at him and made some comment Rhod couldn't hear through his earplugs. He doubted it was appropriate.

A crisp sequence of loud bangs echoed from a mile away. One dozen right after the other. Rhod and Annie turned to look down the circular maw and into the empty black throat of the tunnel. They both shared a grin, the stubborn man-carrier forgotten already.

"Andy's making us some money." Rhod stood up and wrapped the chicken bones up in a napkin, dropping them in the trash on his way out of the break room. Annie abandoned the stubborn vehicle and ran to the tunnel entrance. She flicked on her headlamp to cast a single line of light into the shadows.

"Last shift swore there'd be a vein of hot Dust a little further down," she said, "I'm willing to bet Andy just got it." Mining Dust wasn't an easy job and the rewards weren't a certainty. Lucky Day Mine, in its grand tradition, paid workers by the pound instead of hours. Never a problem for Rhodizite or the rest of Shift 7.

"C'mon, Rhod. Let's go lend hand." Annie practically skipped to the gear rack and snatched a Galea helmet with her name drawn on the back. She tossed Rhod his own helmet, significantly larger, and began tying her hair up into a tight bun.

"The man-carrier's not working, Annie," he said. He stared at the hungry darkness of the tunnel for a moment too long.

"Yeah, don't remind me," she growled and slid her helmet on. He glanced at his face in the reflective visor. Sweat beaded on his dark skin and his pupils shrunk within brown irises. The mine's heat was getting to him. Only the mine's heat.

"It's a mile walk," he said, "if we need any gear or a quick exit…" Annie pressed two fingers into the florescent yellow frame.

"Check-check?" she asked, her voice slightly distorted. Rhod rolled his eyes at her avoidance.

"Check fuzzy," he said flatly. Annie reached beneath the chin speakers and adjusted the setting.

"Check-check?" her voice bounced off the midnight black limestone. Rhod gave a thumbs up.

"Check-check." Her grinning face appeared in a soft blue light that lit the inside of the Galea. She arched a brow at Rhod's bare head.

"Let's go big guy. Suit up." Annie crossed her arms and tapped her steel-toed boot against the dirt. Rhod's brow furrowed.

"Annie, we're not going down there without the man-carrier" he said firmly. "If Uncle Aiken hears about it, there'll be trouble." Annie flexed her neck to adjust the weight of her Galea before she answered with an annoyed groan.

"Foreman won't say anything, Rhod. Your uncle will be happy we cracked a hot Dust vein. We need a lucky break right now. You'll be at Beacon this time next week, what could he do to you?" Annie touched the top of the Galea and a thin line of light speared into the tunnel. She began to make the trek without waiting for him.

"Either way," Annie called back to him, "I'm going." Rhod pressed the Galea down onto his short-trimmed scalp. It felt a little too small but that was by design. Comfort wasn't the objective. The mine became darker when he forced it into place and his own heavy breathing flooded his eardrums.

"Check-check?" He asked, jogging up to Annie's side.

"Check-check." They walked shoulder to shoulder. With the combined power of their headlamps, they saw enough of the tunnel to find their way without tripping. Light clung to patches of damp rock and the gray metal rivets in the ceiling. Each one had been painstakingly inserted to prevent cave-ins.

Rhod's light swept the bare black walls of the tunnel. The things he could see didn't worry him as much as the things he couldn't. He stared at the walls and imagined long claws scrapping solid blocks of rock into pebbles and star shaped noses sifting through the dirt. Smelling. Rooting for the smell of humans.

"Rhod?" Annie's' voice was tinged with concern. Rhod hadn't realize that he'd stopped walking. He glanced over at her and tried to relax his shoulders, unclenching the fists he'd subconsciously balled up.

"Start your breather and turn your ears on," she said. Rhod obeyed by pressing the chin of the helmet. A tiny whirr followed as a filter began its work. Rhod used his palm to fix the audio intake of his helmet. Galeas were top of the line; a hard-hat, flashlight, earplug and air filter.

A mile walk wearing miner's gear was tough, but still only a mile. The hard part was filling the walk with conversation. Try as she might, Annie couldn't help but bring them both back to the same subject.

"Beacon Academy," she whistled, "still can't wrap my head around it. A hunter out of Ainnis-Cloch." Rhod smirked behind the visor. The town was throwing him a party in a few days, and he could tell his friend was trying to avoid ruining the surprise. His Uncle Aiken had let it slip at last week's Sunday dinner. Rhod's mother, Beryl Henry, raked him over the coals.

Beryl had shocked Rhod with all the fanfare for his departure. Being the mayor of Ainnis-Cloch took up nearly all of a single person's energy. She'd left behind the comfortable city life of Landfall to come out into mining country on Zircon's gamble. Now Beryl managed both alone and the toll for it was most of her free time.

"You'll send pictures back right?" she asked. Rhod turned his headlamp and Annie's jumpsuit blazed a cautious yellow.

"Of what?" he rolled his eyes, but a smile crept onto his face. Everyone asked for pictures. Aiken asked for a few snapshots of Vale city; specifically its taverns. The other miners just wanted pictures of anything in Vale or outside Atlas. They were all homegrown Atlasians like Rhod himself. They spoke with the rough countryside accent that city dwellers snickered at and rarely traveled outside their little patch of the world.

Rhod's sisters had been especially particular. Little Topaz wanted pictures of mountains, forests, lakes, and oceans. None of which could be found in the Atlas countryside. Amber was a little more bloodthirsty. She wanted pictures of the Grimm he killed and had been pleading with him for weeks to send her some. All behind their mother's back of course.

"Birds!" Annie chirped. Rhod stopped and stared at her. His puzzled expression was lost behind his visor, but Annie scuffed her boot and stared at the wall all the same.

"I mean colorful ones. Like a Paradiso or a Firefeather. I'd like a picture of one to call my own." Few people loved color like Annie Ginger. She kept an art studio in the house she and her brother shared. Her paintings were rainbows splashed onto canvas. The muted green hills, the clouds of white sheep, and the dark limestone left her feeling empty and cut off from the world.

"Sure thing Annie," Rhod said. The tunnel was silent for a few moments as Annie imagined the sunrise pink plumage of a Flamingo. Rhod let his thoughts drift lazily around his head and focused on the rhythm of his feet.

Scritch-scratch…

Ice crawled down Rhod's spine. He stopped dead his tracks. His right hand crept instinctively to his hip but only grasped an empty holster. He cursed silently for leaving his hammer back at the elevator. He waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

Scritch-scratch…

He tensed and bent his knees. He turned his head to wall on his right, his headlamp scanning like a searchlight.

"Rhod?" Annie's voice was curious but unafraid. She didn't hear it. That meant nothing was scratching the left wall. Or I'm going insane, he thought. Rhod had no illusions about these moments.

Once upon a time, Rhod waved off the safety measures his Uncle and mother drilled into his skull. He'd thought Dust Lung was the only thing a miner couldn't see coming.

"What is it?" she sounded annoyed. But there was an edge of fear to her voice.

"Shhh!" He pulled off his glove and pressed his large hand to the stone. The limestone was damp beneath his palm. Warm water kissed his fingertips and pooled in his lifeline. No tremors. No shifting. The limestone slept undisturbed.

"Let's go," he said. Annie jumped at his words but recovered with her usual grace.

"Idiot," she mumbled, "scare me half to death with that." Her headlamp faced forward. "There wasn't anything there?" her voice was strained now.

"Nothing," Rhod said. Nothing I could feel. They were over halfway to the blasting site. A dim light in the darkness bobbed up and down at the end of the mining corridor. Andy.

"Finally," Annie said with a sigh. Rhod tried to relax and let his muscles loosen up but found his body rebelling again. Since that night two years ago, he hadn't felt safe in the mines. Not like he used too. His frustration clotted into anger. The Grimm had defiled their mine. His father's legacy.

His right hand, still bare, curled into a fist and he wished for the weight of his Polly-Anne. Beneath her tungsten head, Grimm faceplates cracked like a Dust vein and felt just as satisfying. He got lost in the thought of killing a Beowolf, grinning as he pictured its red eyes bulging from the blow of his hammer.

His boot struck a rock and his body tumbled forward.

"Rhod!" Annie yelled. Rhod's ears rang briefly but the Galea hadn't even shifted on his head. He had nothing but a bruised sense of pride.

"Watch the damn floor! That's rule number one!" Annie yelled. Rhod tried to remember that every insult meant 'I care about your safety'. Andy's headlamp shone their way. It blinked three times to signal a question. Someone there? Rhod struggled to his feet and dusted off his knee guards. Annie flicked back three times. Yes.

She flashed her light twice. Safe to come look? Andy's light moved up and down in an exaggerated nod.

"Let's go twinkle toes," Annie said, "and watch the floor." Rhod study the tiny boulder of limestone he stumbled on. He turned and took a step forward.

Scritch-scratch…

Annie and Andy were only a few yards away. But here, his headlamp seemed dim and useless and the tunnel's silence hurt his ears. He lifted his bare hand and shoved it back into its glove.

It's the Galea. He didn't adjust the ears right so he was hearing bad feedback. That had to be it. Or, he though again, you're going crazy. He snapped his fingers as a thought struck him.

He'd tripped on the rock and knocked something loose in the helmet. The Galea's were good but not indestructible. The rock was the culprit now, and it was his imagination earlier. The loose rock. The blast had caused the rock.

Unless it hadn't.

"Motherlode!" Annie's voice was shrill with glee. Rhod rushed through the blasting site's haze. He stepped out into a bright red glow and whistled in awe.

Red like hot coals under a cooking pot. The vein crawled up the wall and onto the ceiling, pulsing with power.

"Rhod," Annie called, "catch!" A nugget of Dust landed in his hand. The red crystal was crusted with burnt limestone and shaped like a deformed star. With a proper amount of care and some cutting, they could have a raw Dust crystal in a few hours. That alone was worth the walk down the tunnel.

"I was just starting to think last shift had lied to us," Andy said, "but a little faith and fortitude yields rewards, as they say." Annie snorted.

"That and explosives," she said. The brother and sister conversed while Rhod examined the Dust vein. His chest filled with a sense of wonder at the thought of being deep below the surface. He glanced at the siblings and remembered what his father had often said about breaking a vein.

You're the first person to stand there. Like the settlers who came to Atlas, you've discovered a place no one's seen before. He stared into the glow of the red Dust and his lips tugged upwards at the thought.

"How far do you think it goes?" Andy asked. He stood next to Rhod and admired the Dust from a financial aspect. The calculations were already ascending. They'd get new equipment for the Medical Clinic for sure, and the new drill models from Landfall. The perks of being an independent mine had made their town a sturdy place with strong bonds.

"Deep, if this is any indicator," Rhod said. "Shame we didn't bring the man-carrier. My Uncle will want to hear about this ASAP." Annie walked up and threw her arms around their shoulders, sloping from Rhod's greater height to her twin's.

"The Dust isn't going to walk away Rhod," she laughed, "Andy! Rhod ate it a moment before we saw you. There was this loose rock-"

Scritch-scratch…

The limestone wall before them shifted near their feet and a small landslide overtook the miners. Rhod had no time to shield his friends. Without his Galea, the rain of rocks would've knocked him out cold, or worse. He could hear Andy screaming in pain and Annie's panicked cries.

Bone white claws erupted from a webbed paw, stabbing Andy through the thigh and shin. The rest formed a cage that trapped his leg. Annie kicked uselessly at the Grimm's fat paw, her boots, reinforced with steel, finding no weakness.

He was a mile from his hammer and any help. Rhod Henry felt fire flood his veins and burn with rage for the Morlock. The noises hadn't been his imagination. That loose rock was from it's digging.

The loose rock. Rhod spun and dashed down the tunnel.

"Rhod!" Annie's voice was full of confusion and fear. The betrayed tone stabbed him in the heart but didn't slow his feet. There was only one this time and it hadn't emerged completely.

His fingers gripped the limestone boulder and his muscles tensed as he cradled it. He ran back as fast as he could. The Galea's visor had cracked and his breath was heavy in his ears. When they'd broken through last time, Polly-Anne had been his salvation. The rock would have to do this time.

Annie yelped when the boulder crashed onto the Morlock's paw. Bones crunched beneath the thick black fur and its claws went limp, Rhod shook Annie by her shoulders.

"Help me get him free!" It was a race against time. Rhod held each four foot claw steady. He could feel the Grimm's skeleton slowly reassembling. The first claw came out easily enough; it was a shallow stab and, by a miracle, had missed his arteries.

"Next!" Rhod bellowed. The paw began to twitch as the nerve endings flared back to life. Rhod's Aura blazed gold and he became rooted to the spot like a statue. The smaller claw had gone straight through the leg and smashed the shinbone. Annie's body glowed bright and gripped her brother's leg. Her aura jumpstarted his own and the delicate veins came together and the splintered bones became whole once more. Andy was silent, passed out from shock.

If Annie hadn't been his twin…if their Auras hadn't been so similar...Andy wouldn't have seen the sun again.

The Morlock's free claws writhed and bounced off Rhod's aura as he kept a firm grasp of his prey. Annie began to drag her brother back down the tunnel and spared a worried glance back at him. Rhod shook his headlamp. Don't wait.

He released the Grimm when they were out of sight and not a moment before. He picked up his boulder and broke it's paw once again, this time he worked the base of it's longest claw until the bone cracked. With a titanic yank he ripped it away from the Morlock's paw.

He held it like a spear and moved backward as the limestone shook. An ugly star-shaped nose emerged and a rounded head followed. It had beady eyes and pinpricks of red on an ivory faceplate of solid bone. If they were like moles, Morlocks were basically blind. But their eyes remained weak points.

Rhod charged and brought the broken claw to bear against its owner. The tunnel echoed with his battle cry and the Morlock's squeal of pain.

He stabbed the socket over and over. Cold, black blood whipped across his visor and left streaks over his work clothes. He didn't stop his attack until the Morlock's head shivered and began to evaporate. The body followed, and even the claw in Rhod's hand crumbled into dust. Only the dark blood remained, clinging to him.

He walked back down the tunnel at a snail's pace. The adrenaline had washed out of his blood and fatigue was weighing on him. A dozen Morlocks had fallen to his hammer when they first broke through, but he couldn't have withstood more than one bear handed. He got lucky. His brow furrowed as he thought of the Morlocks.

Silent and unseen. Invisible until it was far too late to do anything but fight for survival. Like Dust Lung. Like an ignoble death. Rhod would be leaving for Beacon in a few days and the mines would remain a deathtrap. The Hunters would teach him to be stronger and deadlier than any Morlock, and when he returned from Beacon he'd be able to kill Grimm by the score. Hunt Well. The acceptance letter had told him. And Find Victory. He planned to.

He'd walk these tunnels unafraid once more when he returned as Hunter.


	4. P

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AUTHORS NOTE: 
> 
> I would like to say thank you to anyone who’s still keeping up with our updates to HARP. I’m working out a schedule with Hector to make sure the next update will come out on a tighter schedule, so we can have updates on a regular schedule-ish.
> 
> RWBY and its characters are owned by Rooster Teeth. OCs are inspired by this series, but were created by Homer Evergreen. Thanks to Hector for Editing.

P

\--------------------------------------  
Name: Perry Ripley Winkle  
Age: 16  
Address: East End, Vale  
Weaponry: Yihequan (Gauntlets)  
Fighting Style: Five Star Steppe Mantis  
Status: Accepted.   
\--------------------------------------

The scorpion was oily black in normal light, but the UV lamps of the flower shop’s backroom colored it cobalt blue. Rip stared hard into her ugly face and did his best to ignore the claws and stinger, raised dangerously into a defensive stance. A bead of sweat crawled down his nose and made it itch.

Vale City was suffocating beneath the last heat wave of the summer. But inside the flower shop his Master kept the temperature higher to better acclimatize her cacti and desert plants. Bolad Zi had left to pick up sagebrush from the warehouse and given one simple instruction. Don’t Flinch.

It was about fear. More specifically, looking fear in the face. He recalled the writings of Martian the Wanderer that Bolad Zi had drilled into his mind. “No hardened soldier, no witness of horror is prepared for the Grimm.” He knew the Deadliest Hunt from cover to cover and tried to focus on their wisdom, even as the scorpion’s tail tensed above the soft flesh of his palm.

“Fear is unknown to Grimm. This is their weakness. They will not flee when they should.” His shoulder was starting to burn from the strain but Rip kept tight control of his muscles, not trembling even a little. He knew how ornery the scorpion could be when he held her. The scorpion’s claws glittered bright blue and she shuffled on Rip’s palm, her legs tickling him.

He didn’t want to be stung. He had to leave tomorrow, had to start at Beacon. He wanted to help Miriam with dinner at the soup kitchen, play with Wolf before he left, and get a goodnight’s sleep. The sting of an Emperor scorpion would keep him up all night, lingering for days. He knew from experience.

A key slid into the lock but Rip had learned long ago that he couldn’t sigh with relief until the monster was off his hand. He focused on the wood floor under his toes as well as the feeling of the UV laps tanning his naked back and the weight of the scorpion. 

The lock clicked and the door stuck as it always did before his Master shouldered it open. Rip grinned slowly with nervous relief swelling inside his gut. However, Bolad Zi did not take the scorpion from his hand. She began to rummage around behind him and check up on her plants. The methodical tap of her slippers was drawing Rip’s attention, his arm starting to shake ever so lightly. 

Bolad Zi began to hum a tune so quietly that the buzz of the UV lights almost drowned out the noise. The notes caused Rip to furrow his brow. He was getting annoyed and not a little scared. 

“Master…” the word was a croak. The lights had taken a toll on him. The scorpion jittered quickly on his palm and Rip pressed his lips together until they hurt. Bolad Zi continued to hum her strange tune as his shoulder burned anew. 

His finger twitched and the scorpion’s tail curled up. Rip reacted before it could jab him.

His reflexes were superb. Bolad Zi had always said that. The arachnid’s legs kicked at the air and the scorpion flew across the room. Before he even realized the humming had stopped, Bolad Zi appeared and her pet landed on her palm.

It scrambled to its feet and posed defensively, but this hand never shook and she calmed. His master deposited her in a glass habitat where it grabbed and devoured a beetle. 

Rip collapsed and every muscle he’d been holding began aching with a vengeance. Bolad Zi watched the beetle spasm as her scorpion jabbed it full of venom. She glanced at the adult mantis in the habitat next to it. He tapped the glass and eyed the scorpion’s meal. 

“You didn’t feed the mantis,” she said. Rip lifted the back of his head off the floor and bit back a groan. He struggled up onto his feet and walked his lanky frame over to stand next to his master. He snatched some crickets from the teeming mass that lived in a glass box on the shelf. They struggled in his hands but ended up inside the mantis’ den.

“I was going to feed Lightning. But then you handed Princess to me and left to get sagebrush,” he searched for the any sign of boxes or crates. His master rarely spent time outside the shop unless she had too, and it was an easy stroll from the shop to the Vacuon Shipping Company warehouse. 

“Get dressed. We are done for the day, and you need rest for tomorrow,” her caftan rustled softly as she turned, it was one of a dozen she owned. A soft vermillion color with hypnotizing patterns of stars across it. Dead of a winter or peak of summer, her clothing rarely changed. 

Rip slipped on his shoes and the thin t-shirt he’d brought. He emerged into the sunlit storefront, where Bolad Zi was flipping the sign to read OPEN. The afternoon was loitering well past normal. Rip decided to broach a subject he’d been avoiding for the last month.

“Master,” he started as Bolad Zi fussed with a round cactus “should I stop by on weekends? To train I mean.” She shook her head, the small bun of black hair bouncing. She fixed her eyes on him. 

“There is no need. Train every day as I have instructed.” She retrieved some plastic cups and a few ice cubes, “the gymnasium will be state of the art.” She filled the glasses to the brim from a well-used sink and Rip drank deep. 

He’d first come to Bolad Zi’s shop in a wheelchair, his legs atrophied from a year in a coma. Bolad Zi had knowledge of muscles that was rarely seen outside a hospital. It had taken months of effort, but he left his last appointment with her on his own feet. He’d come back not long after and started his tutelage in combat. Six long years ago they’d started on this path. Now it was over. 

“But my lessons won’t stop, right?” he drained his glass, Bolad Zi sipped at hers and studied her apprentice. The former Huntress was measured with her words as much as her movements. 

“Your lessons will never stop. Not now. Not even after you are grown and I have died.” Even as she stood before him, seemingly in her prime, he knew that every breath was a sliver of pain. He considered her archaic words.

She’d told him everything about her life before the flower shop. How it all ended because of a fellow Hunter. One lucky shot from a high-powered sniper rifle had torn through her aura and did what a hundred Grimm couldn’t.

Her aura worked overtime to fix her musculature with every single movement. She was constantly teetering on the edge of collapse. Even Auras can’t completely heal damaged organs and every day was a struggle. 

“But I meant…” Bolad Zi set her glass down with the speed of a viper. 

“Perry,” she raised her voice but didn’t shout, “does a moth return to the cocoon every weekend? I have taught you to fight and you must utilize it.” Rip bristled and for a rare moment, argued with his master.

“Why do I need to go 45 minutes to Beacon? You’re a Huntress, you can teach me everything I need!” To leave Beast End was one thing but Beacon wasn’t a college; it required its students to live on site. His friends were in Beast End, Faunus and Human alike. 

“I was a Huntress, Rip,” Bolad Zi watched a group of children run past the shop, stopping to stare at the strange plants in the window. Or to boldly stare at Bolad Zi and Rip.

“There are many Hunters in the world, Rip. I run this shop. Now go home. Hunt Well.” Rip refused to return the Hunter’s phrase. He wasn’t finished speaking and he found it stupid anyway. 

“I don’t want to go to Beacon,” he cracked his neck. 

“There aren’t any other Hunter Academies left in the world, sadly,” Bolad Zi sipped her water, “you’ve little choice.” Rip scowled.

“Maybe I don’t want to be a Hunter.”

“You should. You’d be good at it.” Rip felt his anger build as his master resumed her cold demeanor. They stood in silence, surrounded by Vacuon plants and heat before Bolad Zi spoke again.

“You are afraid of change, Rip. If you were becoming a Hunter or a janitor or a transient, you would fear the upheaval of life. It would be an insult to me if you chose to waste your potential,” she faced him, her mouth a thin line. After a moment she ushered him into the back and they stood under the UV lights. 

“But who am I? I am Bolad Zi. You are Perry Winkle. You are Rip. I know you can be a Hunter and I know you will surpass your teacher. But not if you choose to fear change,” Bolad Zi placed her hand in the scorpion’s habitat, it flared it’s claws and tail but she scooped it up and held it still. 

“Stare change in the face. Don’t flinch,” she watched Princess crawl up her forearm. She stood perfectly still as it settled on her shoulder, dangerously close to her neck. Rip was too exhausted to fight his master anymore and so he gave her a stiff bow.

“Hunt well,” Rip mumbled as he stepped out into the blinding sunlight. 

“Find victory, Rip” Bolad Zi replied, the scorpion resting on her shoulder.

The smell of pork dumplings filled his nose and made his stomach growl. Little Vacuo was well known to his feet and nostrils. Taste buds too. 

Rip descended a set of steps into a crowded subway platform. The city was busy around him, always so busy. A wrinkled little man leaned against an ad for the latest Scroll Model, plucking away at a sitar. Rip settled onto a concrete wall close enough to hear. 

As he waited for the train to come, his eyes walked over the people around him. Savannans, Islanders, Steppen, and every other type of Vacoun that lived in Remnant. They had made a home here like Bolad Zi had with her flower shop. 

State of the art. That’s what she’d called Beacon. Rip stared at his trainers, the royal purple shoes were scuffed to a light tone and the laces were frayed. His sweatpants had half the name of a school he’d never attended and his t-shirt featured a rock band he’d never heard.

Could he be a part of the world of Bolad Zi’s mythic Hunters? Him; shabby clothes and mop of black hair? He’d been to Beacon once, a decade ago with the other orphans from New Dawn. It was a special history field trip Vert Satyr had organized and Rip remembered how the statues on campus were giant and white and clean. 

The station filled with the roar of a train and drowned out the twang of the sitar strings. A crush of people squeezed into the train. Rip stood and let an older Savannan woman take a seat. She smiled and Rip returned it. 

The stops went by like they usually did. Market Square, Roland Hill, Octopus Avenue, and finally Big Hook. The Vacoun passengers had been exchanged for Valish citizens by then and Rip blended into the crowd at last. He jogged up into the late afternoon air, his mind heavy with thoughts. 

There sat Beacon with its glass and steel frame shining high above the city, flanked by greenery mounted on proud cliffs. He’d be going there tomorrow. What choice did he have? Where else could he go?

He turned his back on the school and faced a large green sign. East End was written in fading white letters. In a few hours though, someone would sneak by with spray paint and scale it. The next morning a large B would be left behind as a reminder to every Faunus inhabitant exactly what this city thought. Cops placed cameras by it to discourage vandalism but rarely enforced the law. 

The rusty bridge was a brisk stroll for Rip. Within minutes squat buildings and beat up cars surrounded him. He found himself at home walking down the double-wide Main Avenue of his neighborhood. 

Reconcile Street was named to symbolize the return of the Faunus to Vale following the end of The Faunus Rights Revolution. The Four Kingdoms turned out to “apologize” to the Faunus for the Forced Emigration Act. 

He recalled a photo Vert Satyr had of the occasion. Streamers hung from streetlamps, the freshly tarred roads were sturdy, and the renovated warehouses and storefronts all seemed like a new beginning for the Faunus.

Rip stepped over the cracked sidewalk and gave an overflowing trash can a wide berth. Beast End wasn’t called Little Menagerie for a reason. It wasn’t a place for people to reunite with their own kind and build a multi-cultural garden in the city.

The concrete island was a graveyard of warehouses when the Faunus came home. Someone on the Vale City Council probably snapped his or her fingers. “If you can stack crates out of the way,” they thought, “why not the halfies?” Slap on some paint, install a decent electrical system, and get a photo-op. Rip suspected someone got a tidy bonus for that idea. 

Rip wasn’t a Faunus. He had human ears, blunt human fingernails, violet human eyes, and flat tipped human teeth. But he had lived here all his life among them. To most humans that made him a Faunus. Rip was fine with that. The Faunus had always treated him better. There were certain exceptions.

“Hey!” A voice called from behind him, “Where you headed?” Rip bit back a curse. They were out early tonight, or maybe he’d left Bolad Zi’s later than he’d planned. 

Rip scanned the street and found refuge in Jock’s Corner Deli. He quickened his pace and heard three pairs of feet speed up behind him. Don’t run. They only chase you down if you try to run. He stepped into a slightly cooler environment with the tinkling of a bell. 

“We’re closing,” a large shape rounded the counter and stopped short, “oh never mind. How you been, slim?” Jock was round and his striped apron made him look like a beach ball. He scratched around the bull horns on his bald head. 

“Sup, Big Jock,” Rip said and bumped knuckles with the pudgy Faunus. 

“You eat yet? Got corned beef and chips if you’re hungry. You’re skinny self could use some food either way, have a seat.” Jock whipped a cloth from his waist and wiped down a tabletop. The bell tinkled above the door once again.

The deli felt much smaller with its’ three new customers. Each one was a teenager and they wore mean scowls and matching white necklaces: a white tooth hanging from a string. 

“We’re closing,” Jock said. His jovial manner disappeared at the sight of their necklaces. He shuffled towards the counter, where Rip knew he kept a baseball bat. Rip mentally mapped the way out the back and into the alleys. He didn’t want a dust up in Jock’s shop. 

“That’s fine,” stated a red-haired dog Faunus, “we won’t trouble you. Anything you need help with, brother?” His blue eyes flickered to Rip, who cracked his knuckles softly. Jock moved his bulk between them and he placed a large hand on Rip’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. I got this, Jock was saying. 

“Slim here can lend me a hand,” he smiled, “you can head on back home.” 

“Home? We’re too busy for that,” the leader said, “we have patrol orders. We’re keeping the streets clean.” He crossed his arms and stared Rip dead in the eye. Rip narrowed his own gaze back. 

“Hear that Slim?” Jock chuckled, “We’re safe and sound. Have a nice night boys.” The guys by the door looked at their leader who faced Jock and smiled. 

“We could make this place a regular stop if you’d like, brother.” Jock laughed without any humor and his eyes glinted above his cheeks.

“My daddy had a heart attack when I was nineteen,” he said, “so you aren’t my brother.” He stepped forward and backed the teen up against his friends.

“So one more try,” he smiled, “I’m closing. You’re leaving. Goodbye.” The leader frowned and nodded to his friends. Rip tensed but they only turned and left. The leader winked at Rip as he left and showed his fangs in a smile. 

“Jock you didn’t…” Rip started.

“My store. My rules. So I did,” he said as he ushered Rip to a seat, “stupid kids come in here. Think those damn necklaces make me indebted to ‘em. Thanks for keeping cool.” Jock disappeared into the kitchen and Rip heard the chunk of knife against corned beef. 

“Your store. Your rules,” Rip called after him, “but they’ll be back.” Jock laughed from the kitchen. 

“I saw one of them in hear yesterday. With his mama. I give her the word her son’s wearing a necklace she’ll give him hell.” Jock emerged with two generous plates of dinner. Rip tucked in and the chair across from him groaned as Jock settled in.

“I know you look out for those rug rats at New Dawn,” he said earnestly, “you make sure they don’t ever end up wearing a necklace. Or you’ll answer to Big Jock.” Rip snorted into his glass of water but grew sad as he thought.

“I’ll try to visit them regularly,” he said. Jock eyed him suspiciously.

“You focus on schooling first though,” he said. Rip rolled his eyes. Bolad Zi and now Big Jock. 

“Vert Satyr looked after you just fine,” Jock said around his chewing, “he’s been through it all.” 

“I don’t want to be a Hunter, Jock,” the words spilled out before he could stop them. Jock sat up and stared at a picture on the wall for a minute. A slightly skinnier version of himself waved from beneath a banner that read Grand Opening. 

“You know,” he said at last, “back then I thought by now I’d be retired. I dreamed of living my days upstairs with the windows open and the TV on all the time.” Jock laughed and shook his head. 

“But back then I didn’t know what this Deli meant to people. How many times have those boys eaten meat I sliced? You and the other rug rats stopped by once a week.” 

“Where’d they go to get fresh meat if they didn’t come to me, Rip? I once heard some journalist call our neighborhood a “food desert”. Can you believe that? A desert! How can I close up an oasis?” Rip wasn’t hungry anymore, half his sandwich lay untouched on the plate.

“Jock,” he said, “I’m sorry, cause that was beautiful, but what does that have to do with me?” Jock rolled his eyes and groaned at him.

“Rip you don’t get to back out! You think I’d still be lugging my fat ass around this deli if I didn’t have an obligation? How many people are where they want to be?” 

Rip thought of Bolad Zi in her flower shop, pining for the Steppes and expelled from her life as Hunter. He thought of the sitar man, sitting in a subway and playing music for strangers. He thought of Jock putting himself between Rip and danger on a regular basis.

“It sucks,” Rip said. Jock leaned forward onto the table.

“It does. But not all the time, Rip. You’ll see the good in this someday,” Jock said.

“Is that all you can say?” Rip asked. 

“I’d just be repeating myself, slim,” Jock nudged his shoulder, “now finish your sandwich. I gotta close up for real.” They finished their meal in silence and Rip said goodbye. The sun had fallen low and the dinner rush would be starting soon at the Daily Bread. 

 

P


	5. Viewpoints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RWBY and all it's characters are owned by Rooster Teeth. Original characters created by Homer Evergreen. Thanks to Hector for editing.

The Valley of the Scorpion, Vacuo  
.....................  
This was the worst time of night for him. The phantom tingling of a missing leg had roused him, as it always did, to get a mirror and hold alongside his right leg. He'd never figured out how this trick convinced his body he was whole again, but an hour passed and the phantom pain vanished.

Tin Steadfast listened to the sound of desert bugs chirping in the brush and sniffed at the lingering scent of tobacco in his room. What he hated most about this time of night was the nostalgia he felt. In the stark light of day he had no illusions about himself, he was an old man who couldn't fight Grimm anymore.

But in the shadowy hours between midnight and dawn the urge to strap on his false leg and go hunting burned in him like molten steel. In the fog of his memories he recalled what day it was and smiled. Move-in day.

New Hunters were coming. New blood to flow in the veins of the order and give it life again. He tried to not to imagine how much smaller the number of students would be this year. He thought of the new graduates who would come to be inducted into the ranks of Hunters in only a few short months.

Tin Steady loved the Hunters with every inch of his being, even the 29 inches of leg that he'd lost in service to them. He rolled over and closed his eyes, thinking about a late summer day at Beacon Academy a lifetime ago. He smiled as he pictured the black haired teenager who walked with a swagger like he owned the whole world.

Where was that young man with two working legs? Had he really grown old?

.....................

Vale City, Vale

"I don't think she likes me," Cyrus said and pushed his last sausage around the plate with his fork. Azeban swallowed the last bite of her eggs before patting the fellow teen's shoulder.

"Sounds to me like she just doesn't know you yet," she explained, "maybe start saying 'good morning' to her in the hallway. She'll get to know your face." The Greyhounds were a nice family but Cyrus was a sulk. A girl at his school had been the topic of discussion for most of the trip over.

"Right, she doesn't even know I exist," he mumbled. Azeban resisted slapping her own forehead. She glanced over at the boy's father, Medes, but he was preoccupied a cargo manifest.

"Thanks again, Mr. Greyhound," she blurted out. The man's balding head rose above the Digiboard to smile briefly. Both father and son had identical sets of grey canine ears and wore matching green jumpsuits. Apparently Cyrus was being inducted into the family business this summer.

Azeban wondered at the odd parallel of their lives. Next week Cyrus was going back to high school, where his greatest concern was a girl that Azeban doubted lived up to the fuss. He'd be doing regular math homework and stress about normal history tests. Azeban would be fighting Grimm and learning the ways of the Hunters.

Azeban, not for the first time, was grateful that she wasn't going to a normal high school.

A breeze swept into the cargo bay of the Greyhound Airship. They were assembled around a card table and seated on beat-up folding chairs. The bow door was open and the ramp was lowered to receive its next shipment of crates. Mammoth sized airships were parked on the tarmac outside, all of them Roc-Class. Azeban cocked her head at the snowflake symbol painted in stark white against one of their grey and blue hulls.

"Is this whole yard owned by the same company?" She asked innocently enough. Cyrus grimaced and nudged his head towards his dad, mouthing a "no". The elder Faunus sighed and cleared his throat with a wet cough.

"No. Much as old Schnee would like that, Vale City owns this yard," he jabbed his thumb behind him, "we had a shipment of paper clips for the mayor's office." Azeban's laughter died at Medes' stone faced stare. She coughed and glanced at the snowflakes on the Rocs once more, giggling to herself.

"What?" Cyrus asked.

"Never thought I'd see snowflakes this late in the summer," she said. Cyrus' eyes pleaded with her, but it was too late. Medes' Digiboard clattered against his plate as he dropped it.

"Get a good look. They'll be gone soon," he growled, "Schnee can't wait to get his hands on enough real estate to build his own yard." He stomped across the bay and stood in the silhouette of daylight. He cut the figure of a dying hero facing an army of giant grey monsters.

"Schnee gets a private parking lot and the city has an airship yard without their biggest trader. Which means they'll shut it down to save lien." Azeban quirked her eyebrow and glanced at Cyrus. But he preoccupied himself eating the last sausage despite looking nauseous.

"He a monopolist, racist, classist?" Medes went on, "It don't matter a whit to the Valish! Long as he's also the richest guy around." He glared at the snowflake symbol on the nearest Roc as if he was trying to melt it off the hull.

"He can't be all that bad, Mr. Greyhound. He's only one man." Azeban said, her face unreadable. Medes looked over his shoulder, judging by the fire in his eyes this had been the wrong thing to say.

"One human, for sure, but rich and in deep with every politician who can be bribed." Medes spat onto the tarmac, likely aiming at the Rocs.

"We'll be tucked away and forgotten." He stared at his feet. "It never changes young miss. Just like what the Four Kingdoms did to us with Menagerie, the Schnee Company does it now." Azeban nodded solemnly when he looked her way but she didn't have anything to add. In High Crimson, no one talked about Menagerie because no one had ever been there. Isolation and the nature of their home had kept them safe from the soldiers.

"Did you live there?" she ventured. Cyrus stopped his half-hearted chewing and looked at her wide-eyed. Even Medes spun around, his angry face morphed into confusion. But then his eyes flickered to her bright red shawl and he smiled sadly with understanding.

"I was your age come the Freedom," he said, " though others call it the Armistice." He pulled a face like the word tasted foul.

"My sister stayed behind and had a family. I went to Mistral to start a business with my girlfriend," he explained. He crossed behind Cyrus and slapped his shoulder proudly.

"When I learned she was pregnant, proposed on the spot." Cyrus turned red and rolled his eyes. Azeban snickered, but tried to cover her mouth out of sympathy.

"But what was it like living there?" she prodded. Sibosek would've flicked her ear for asking so many personal questions. Medes looked off into nothing and his eyes became wistful. He fluctuated between a frown and smile.

"We lived in Glass. Nice enough city, though not nearly as pretty as Arche or Vale or the other capitals. It was peaceful enough before the war-Ah!" he said suddenly.

"Let's talk about something else, miss," he said, "anything but the past."

"Or the Schnees," mumbled Cyrus. Medes squinted at him suspiciously but let alone. Azeban still wanted to know about Menagerie but wouldn't dare press when asked not too. She decided to switch to the present.

"Will I be able to get off the airship soon?" she asked, wincing at the thought of how her host might take her words.

"Say 'disembark', miss. That's the proper term," Medes corrected. "My friend in the Air Traffic Control should be by soon to take you to check-in. He'll get you there." Medes' eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers.

"Cyrus! Take the young lady past all the…Rocs. Let her see the view from up here," he commanded. Cyrus nodded and motioned for her to follow. Azeban squinted at the brightness of the sun and adjusted her shawl from the heat. Cyrus noticed her movements.

"It'll be better when we get to the fence, none of these Rocs will block the breeze," he assured her. Before Azeban could ask "what breeze" she gasped. Then grinned from ear to ear.

"Is that the whole city?" she asked. She rustled in her pocket for a tourist map. It had been updated by her brother with little notes and suggestions.

.

"Just the far side of it, really," Cyrus replied. His tone suggested the view had become rather mundane to him.

"You can't see it from here," Cyrus said, "but there's a whole beach behind Hightower." Azeban's brow furrowed as she looked over her map Cyrus peeked over her shoulder and pointed at the "Shiny District" as Miko had so elegantly put it.

"That's Hightower," he said. Azeban looked up and nearly laughed at the apropos name. The rich district skyline was crowded with glass skyscrapers that glowed jade in the sunlight. She marveled at the thought of standing in one and looking down at the city below.

"My dad always said that Hightower was built specifically to wall off the sight of Foundry from the nicer part of city." Azeban looked up from the map and grinned sheepishly.

"Oh right, Foundry's there," he pointed. The Foundry was a rusty wedge of crowded rail yards and long dead smokestacks. Fields of yellow weeds grew between the silent factories that once rang with the sound of steel working. It was an industrial corpse splayed out across the cityscape.

"What do you call the Agricultural district?"

"Agricultural? Oh, you mean Cornucopia?"

Foundry was bordered by the farms of Cornucopia to the south. The north was faced with the thin blue line of the river. Azeban traced her finger over the map, following it down past Foundry and Hightower towards the "Residential District". Thanks, Miko she bitterly thought.

"What's the river called, please and thank you?"

"Vale City River," he replied. Azeban frowned.

"And where it forks? What's that place called?"

"That's a tough one, there's a couple different neighborhoods in there," Cyrus explained.

"I think it's called Ark collectively. But there are places where the Atlasians, Vacuons, and Mistralese all live too. They have their own names for them." Cyrus gripped the chain link fence and leaned against it. Azeban searched the map and her face fell.

"Beast End isn't on here?" The fence jangled as Cyrus spun to look at her, Azeban found herself shocked to see anger in his eyes.

"Don't call it that!" he snapped.

"You don't have to yell," she snapped back, though she kicked herself for not calling it "East End" like her mother had insisted. Cyrus scowled at Vale and then turned to scowl at the Rocs across the tarmac. He turned and fell back into the fence with a heavy sigh.

"He's right ya know," Cyrus muttered, "my dad is right. They are trying to shove us all away. East End is a great example." Azeban inspected her toes and tried to put herself in the shoes of the Faunus before her.

"Stupid humans," Cyrus muttered, "stupid racists. Put them on an island and ask them if they liked it." Azeban quickly shook her head.

"Not all humans are bad," she said. She neglected from mentioning that she'd met about thirty humans in her life.

"No," Cyrus admitted, "but most of them are." The sound of the wind rushing by them filled the next few minutes. Cyrus searched the horizon and pointed to a speck off the shoulder of Foundry.

"That's East End." It was a small island in the waters of Barney Bay.

"Before you ask," Cyrus sighed, "yeah, it's not on the East Side of the City. The name was "East and Dodd's" originally. For the shipping company that owned the island." Azeban noted no disdain or contempt for the defunct traders, though they seemed fond of the same tactics as the Schnee Company.

"Do ships still arrive there?" Azeban tried for the most innocuous question she could.

"Only when the Foundry docks get too crowded," Cyrus squinted. "That might actually happen today. See?" The bay was indeed full of ships congesting the docks with their bulk. Azeban locked onto one red and black container inching towards Beast End.

"I bet those sailors will want to stretch their legs," she observed innocently. She could practically hear Cyrus grinding his teeth in response. She was getting sick of his vitriol but she tried to keep it hidden.

"Bet they won't," he growled, "they'd rather stay cramped on that boat than walk with us 'halfies'." Azeban snorted.

"What?" she laughed helplessly. Halfie. That was the big bad slur her parents had sheltered her from. She tried to imagine an angry, red-faced human screaming it at her until his lungs collapsed and she nearly collapsed with laughter.

"What is wrong with you? Don't you get that's an insult?" Cyrus asked. Looking ready to shout or run away in fear.

"Well yeah, but it's a stupid one!" Azeban tried to subdue herself. She focused on Cyrus' pout and again tried to remember that he wasn't a High Crimson Faunus. He didn't have a Grandma Sequoia to tell him to be proud of himself.

"Cyrus, can I ask you something else?" She had been wondering since his outburst earlier about the Rocs that so vexed his father.

"What about?" Cyrus asked uncertainly.

"You said your dad was right," she began, "but back in the airship you kept trying to stop me from asking him about the Schnees. Why?"

"I don't like to see him get angry over it," he replied. Azeban grimaced. You idiot. Of course that's why he wanted you to stop. Great start, Azeban. But Cyrus wasn't finished speaking.

"There's no point," he continued, "cause the Schnees'll get their way. Just like with East End and Menagerie. The humans always get their way."

"Cyrus, you can't believe that," Azeban said. "That's a horrible view of the world. You're like an old-man in a teenager's body." She was sick of the moping and the bitterness. She'd hoped the navel gazing would stay home in High Crimson.

"It's the way things are in the real world. You should learn to accept that like we all do." he mumbled. Azeban found the view far less appealing than she had a minute ago. She turned and marched back with her fists clenched at her sides. Her temper boiled over and she rounded on him

"I don't have to accept being a miserable sulk! Try being less dramatic, Cyrus, and maybe that girl will notice you!" She returned to the airship to find the man Medes' promised would handle her transportation from there on. She gave Medes a polite goodbye and thanked him once again. For the rest of her journey to Beacon, she tried to focus on everything she'd need in the days to come.

Her thoughts drifted back to that chain link fence and the forlorn words of a boy her age, going to school and leading a normal life by all accounts. The humans will always get their way. Her gut twisted as she stared at the approaching city.


	6. Food for the Hungry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhod's ship docks on the rough side of Vale, but he decides to take his chances and is rewarded with a new acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: RWBY and its characters are owned by Rooster Teeth. While the OCs in this story were inspired by the series, they were created by Homer Evergreen. Thanks to Hector for editing.
> 
> Editor’s Note: Hello people. This chapter is coming at you sooner than expected thanks to a free night of no homework, approximately 4 ounces of home-brewed espresso, and one Red Bull.  
> Caffeine. Never leave me, love of my life…  
> -Hector

“It’s this way, laddie,” the captain began, “there’s just too much volume in the bay right now.” Both Rhod and the Captain were sweating buckets on the cargo ship’s deck. The cargo boat had left Landfall with several tons of Dust and one Atlasian teenager for delivery to Vale City. 

“Will we be cleared up soon?” Rhod asked. The sun was creeping towards its zenith at a snail’s pace. But their ship had been sitting alongside the abandoned warehouses of this little island for two hours. He could see Beacon from here. It didn’t seem that far. 

“Son,” the captain said, “I’d just settle in.” The pudgy man lounged in a beach chair and dabbed his head with a handkerchief. Rhod glanced back at his belongings; a large yellow backpack, two duffel bags, and his dear Polly-Anne. It would be a lot to carry on foot. 

“Right,” Rhod said, “I’m walking.”

“Hold on,” the captain sputtered, “there’s procedure and all that! You can’t just get off the ship!” Rhod slid the straps onto his shoulders and pulled them tight. Polly-Anne slid into his belt loop and hung by his hip. 

“I’ll take care of that at Beacon,” he replied with a confident nod. Rhod had no idea what procedures the Captain was referencing, but he disliked the word. It implied long and tedious goings-on and right now he had to make orientation.

“But, laddie,” the Captain begged, “if something should happen to you--- just wait for a spell. It won’t be all that long.” Rhod chuckled and lifted his bags up with no effort.

“I can more than look out for myself,” he said and shouted for someone to lower the gangplank. The Captain rose from his chair after some internal strife. 

“This isn’t a good spot to go ashore,” he explained. “This is Beast End!” Rhod stopped and faced the Captain with a blank stare. 

“’Beast’ End?” 

“It’s a bad neighborhood,” the Captain said. Rhod nodded slowly but didn’t present any visible sign of changing his mind. 

“You see, son,” Rhod scowled at being addressed that way, “this is a Faunus neighborhood. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb. And gain a little too much attention.”

“I won’t bother anyone and get through quick,” he promised and then called once more for the gangplank. The Captain gaped like a fish but sighed and ordered his men to let Rhod off. The Captain carefully instructed him to find Reconcile Street and follow it off the island to the nearest subway station at Big Hook. 

Soon enough, Rhod’s boots played a hollow beat across the wooden boards of the dock before being silenced by the sidewalk. He tried to look casual as he scrambled for his bearings. He finally decided to head away from the empty warehouses and the dirty beaches, deciding he could ask directions at least. 

Maybe get some breakfast too, he thought as his stomach growled. Rhod hiked up his bags and began to whistle a jolly tune. He followed Liberty Street into the residential area. 

Where the docks had been largely abandoned, the main thoroughfare of Beast End hustled with people, all sporting the ears or tails of animals. Rhod hadn’t seen many Faunus in his life, but he tried not to stare. 

Not that his politeness was reciprocated. His stature combined with his bright yellow clothing caused snickers all around, and he blushed at everyone he heard. Most of the locals gave him a perplexed look and went about their day. Some openly stared at him in surprise, for one reason or another. 

He couldn’t shake an unpleasant feeling as he crossed the street and perused the sparse storefronts. A surreptitious glance in a window confirmed that three young men were observing him with shameless glares. He cracked his knuckles softly and determined to find a place to settle in for food that had plenty of witnesses. His resolve took him to a three-way intersection until a happy bark drew his attention down an alleyway. 

Meanwhile, the Daily Bread Soup Kitchen staff was doling out cereal, milk, and coffee to their breakfast rush patrons. Miriam Coal was at the center of the storm directing everyone with a large ladle. She shouted at Rip as he passed her.

“You’re not going to be late on the first day, Rip!” she said. Rip set down the tower of bowls he’d been carrying and turned the sink on full blast.

“I got time Miriam!” he called back over the din, “I’m just gonna stay until the breakfast crowd leaves!” Miriam swiped the dishtowel from his shoulder and began drying the minute Rip finished cleaning the bowls. They finished in record time.

“Then you’re gonna try and tell me you need to help with lunch,” she said, “don’t think you can fool me Rip.” She dashed from the coffee machines to the trash cans to dump out the filters. Then she tied off the nearly full bag and began to lift it. 

Rip swooped in and snagged it out of her hands before making a beeline for the back door. He stepped out into the hot alley, a dozing dog looked up and wagged his tail. Wolf rolled onto his back and Rip scratched his belly as he walked to the dumpster.

“I ain’t made of glass, Rip,” Miriam quipped when he came through the screen door. Rip rolled his eyes as the dishtowel lashed his shoulder. 

“I guess this industriousness of yours means you remembered to clean up your room?” Miriam asked as she served up a plate of eggs and bacon to a grateful mother, her kid peeking out from behind her hip.

“Of course Miriam,” Rip said. Not that there had been much to clean up. Rip knew how to keep his living space clean, save for some of Wolf’s paw prints or hairs, the room didn’t need much looking after. 

“Go check for certain,” she said with a smile hidden from his view. Rip looked at her askance and gestured to the busy kitchen. 

The teen held up his hands in surrender and raced back out into the alley, patting Wolf on the head as he went. He climbed the fifteen familiar iron steps up the fire-escape and shouldered the stubborn door to his room open. 

His eyes fell on a large cardboard box resting on top of his mattress. It was sealed tight with duct tape, but he smiled at the drawings across the cardboard. There were stick figures or oddly proportioned bodies in a rainbow of colors and each one sporting a pair of animal ears.

A present from the kids at New Dawn. He ran his fingers over the cardboard and arched his brow at the foreign lettering left behind on it. It was Steppen, Bolad Zi’s language. 

Wolf barked, and being the halfway-decent guard dog that he was, he drew his owner’s attention to the alley. Rip readied a harangue, Wolf was a big softie if the situation got down to it. Sure enough, his barking had turned into a happy yip.

“There now,” a heavily accented voice said, “you’re a friendly one, huh?” I’m not, though, Rip thought as he cracked his knuckles. He picked up the box and stumbled at the weight. 

“Hey!” Rip yelled as he worked the wide box through his too small doorframe. He still spoke with authority, not that he'd be very intimidating struggling backward down the stairwell.

“We don’t like people coming around back,” he said, “use the front if you want breakfast. If not, keep our alley clear. Please and thank you.”

“No offense meant, mate,” the voice said, “just saw this pup here and…do you need a hand with that perhaps?” Rip rolled his eyes at the slight chuckle the stranger couldn’t stifle in time. He made it to the landing and set his box down with what dignity he could muster.

“No. I’m fine,” he turned as he spoke, “but like I said you need to…” He was staring at the pectorals of an immense man. Up until this moment in his life there had been two people in the world that were this big, and neither of them spoke with an accent.

“Oh my god,” Rip whispered as he backed up slowly.

“Alright, mate?” Rhod asked the skinny fellow before him. In Ainnis-Cloch he’d be considered underfed. 

“Yeah. Just reflecting on my way of greeting strangers,” he replied. The dog Rhod had been petting scrambled to his feet and trotted over to the boy, his tail whipping the air. 

“Did you say you offer breakfast?” Rhod gave him a winning grin, like his mother always told him to. It reminded Rip of a smiling bear more than anything.

“Yes,” he said, “but this is a soup kitchen.” 

“You only serve soup?” 

Rip sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He explained to the stranger that the Daily Bread was a place for the homeless or the needy to come for a meal. Rip looked him over, noting the baggage he carried on his immense frame, and softened. 

“I mean, if you’re a runaway or something we can set you up of course.” he asked. Rhod looked at him askance and shook his head quickly. 

“Just far away from home, mate,” he replied, “I’ve come to the city for schooling.” Rip nodded. He turned his back on the stranger, confident he meant no harm and picked his gift up again.

“Where at?” he asked. 

“Beacon Academy!” Rhod beamed. Rip promptly dropped the box on his toe and yelped.

“Careful!” Rhod scooped the package up effortlessly, the skinny boy hopped up and down, clutching his foot. Rip looked up and grinned falsely while he held back a truly epic swear.

“Thank you, uh?” 

“Rhodizite Henry,” he said extending a baseball mitt sized hand, “most people just call me Rhod, on account of my name being such a barb to say.” Rip gingerly put his foot down and offered his hand. 

“Rip,” he replied and winced as Rhod squeezed his hand. The screen door swung open and Miriam poked her head out. She squinted at Rhod before glancing down to Rip. Rip shrugged his shoulders and smiled helplessly.

.....

“Ainnis-Cloch? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.” Miriam said as she observed the large young man finish a ceramic bowl of oatmeal that was splashed with cinnamon for flavor. Rhod accepted the meal after some prodding from Miriam and ate with a sheepish expression. 

“We’re a small place to be sure,” Rhod said, “but we provide Dust for all kinds across Atlas. Not as big or impressive as the Schnee Company perhaps, but not a soul amongst us isn’t proud of the work we do.” Rip thought of the man's words as he glanced out into the dining area, packed with conversing people and his lips curved upwards.

“How did you end up in our neighborhood anyway? Beacon is a long way from here.” Rhod recounted the traffic in the bay and the gamble he’d taken on distance versus time. Miriam smirked at Rip and sealed his fate.

“Rip here will be more than happy to take you to Beacon. He was just leaving when you showed up.” The teen barely had time to react before Rhod laughed.

“Too kind of you, ma’a,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to put him that far out of the way. Rip’s been plenty kind to me already.” 

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Miriam said with mock surprise, “He’s heading to Beacon too!” The stool creaked as Rhod turned to regard Rip with wide eyes of surprise. They were the biggest Rip had ever seen.


	7. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes find themselves on an airship ride to the mighty school of Beacon Academy. Some even find each other.

Hesh couldn’t bring himself to shut his Scroll off. Not many people had his number, and he certainly wasn’t planning to talk to the few who did. He should’ve done so after his father called him the first time. 

Instead, he let it buzz against the top of his trunk. “DAD” flashed across the screen above a candid picture of his father riding Armistice. The phone ceased moving and a number, 13, popped up. 

Again, the phone began to buzz until a fourteenth message was added to the backlog. He glanced over his shoulder at the outlook behind him.

The Beacon Airship station was at the edge of Vale City, a squat steel mound atop a sheer cliffside. Below them the Emerald Forest sunned its canopy and gray airships floated through the skies above. 

He pocketed his phone, 16 reading across the screen, and took stock of his surroundings. The rotunda was filled with students both returning and new. He felt a twinge of jealousy as he watched old friends share high-fives and bombastic greetings. 

He hadn’t tried his luck talking to his fellow first-years either. Most were busy with their luggage or still trying to shoo their parents out of the station. One student hugged at least six sisters goodbye and then shared a few parting words with a middle-aged man who ruffled the boy’s blonde hair. The father and son looked so much alike. 

Bzzt-bzzt! His Scroll shivered. He now had 17 unread messages from DAD. 

“All Beacon students please allow first-year students to board the airship first,” a female voice chirped from the loudspeakers. Hesh twisted in place and prepared to carry his trunk unaided once more. It had been a difficult climb up the station steps but the airship was just a brisk stroll across the rotunda.

The crowded rotunda. Where everyone could see him if he dropped it. Or otherwise humiliated himself. 

“I swear this is giving me a hernia!” he hissed. Lifting the unwieldy object, he backpedaled a few inches and bumped someone with his shoulders. Great start, Crane. Before he could apologize a strange, bristly appendage brushed the back of his neck.

“Eugh!” his trunk slid from his grasp with a loud thud and he whirled around in perfect sync with a Faunus girl. She was dressed in crimson from a red shawl to a pair of leather sandals. One of her ears twitched as she studied him and Hesh rubbed his neck when he noticed her ringed tail.

“Oh, eh. Sorry about that,” he said. She smiled and shook her head, short black hair dancing around. 

“No worries,” she said while peeking around him. “You might want some help with that.” She slid past him and knelt in front of his steamer. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the carefully carved cranes on it’s shell. Her finger glided beneath the gold letters of his name.

“Hes-Ian Pinion Crane?” she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Hessian,” he said, “with an ‘h’ sound instead of an ‘s’.” The girl stood and whipped a duffle bag around to her front. The word AZEBAN was knitted into the side. She tapped the Z and grinned.

“I know what that’s like. It’s an ‘S’ sound, not a ‘Z’.” 

“Azeban,” Hesh tried the word once and got a nod from her. He picked up the one handle of the trunk.

“Well, Azeban,” he said, “thanks for the offer but-” she grabbed the other handle and lifted it with little effort. Hesh’s voice failed him. Her size was deceptive. She packed generous arm muscles. 

“C’mon, the airship is docking!” She pulled Hesh along by the steamer trunk’s handle and he jogged to keep up with her. The crush of students entered the airship’s belly to crowd an assembly room with large televisions flanked by surprisingly ornate windows. 

“They must have gotten these custom built,” Hesh observed. A hologram appeared at the head of the crowd. 

“Why do you say that?” Azeban asked. 

“My father knows airships. I’ve never heard of a private school owning one with these kind of additions.” Azeban frowned and scrutinized the interior. 

“Plexiglass windows, for one.” Hesh knocked on the one they stood next to.

“Then there’s the-” a figure materialized in front of them and Azeban jolted back.

“Holographic projectors,” Hesh finished. The hologram of a blonde woman began to speak.

……….

At the other end of the Airship’s front deck, two late arrivals peeked over the crowd before them. More appropriately, one peaked and the other enjoyed an unobstructed view by virtue of his sheer height. 

“Can you hear what she’s saying?” Rip hissed. Rhod shook his head and leaned back against the wall. 

“Great,” Rip said, “with my luck she’s announcing something important. You’d think they could spring for a loudspeaker.” 

“It's probably the usual ‘welcome to Beacon’ stuff,” Rhod yawned, “I’m not worried about it myself.” Rip glanced up at his new acquaintance, considering him carefully. 

The journey out of East End had been brisk and peaceful. Not quiet, though. Rhod would not shut up about how lucky he was to have stumbled into Rip. He was chipper, Rip couldn’t deny that, but to the point of being borderline annoying. However, Rip couldn’t find a good enough reason to ditch the big guy along the way. 

His mood soured with every passing minute of their flight. The airship made him uneasy in a way no subway ride ever had. There was something about being in a crowd of strangers and knowing you’d have to get to know them all soon. They weren’t his friends, but they were going to be his peers. 

He couldn’t shrug off the heavy feeling of dread surrounding the trip. Two hours before, he’d been in his element at the soup kitchen. Now he was floating, like the airship itself, separated from the ground and unlike the ship he was uncertain where in life he’d touch down. 

It didn’t help that everyone around him, Rhod most of all, spent the whole flight hyped up and happy. Rip hadn’t even arrived at Beacon yet and he was homesick already. Soon, the airship thrummed as the engine slowed them to rest on the Beacon platform and the sunlight was blinding as the doors swung outward. They had arrived.

…...

“Never get used to that!” Hesh hissed as pains from his six hour train ride resurfaced in the form of dull ache. Azeban grinned and stepped forward, tugging Hesh along by the steamer trunk. They managed to avoid the herd of students that trundled off the airship and found themselves struck dumb as they looked on their new school.

“Would you look at that.” Azeban whispered. Hesh whistled in response. Beacon was ivory metal and dark glass surrounded by lush plots of greenery. A fountain was burbling below a stoic statue of a man thrusting a bow above its head. Azeban made a beeline for the fountain, taking Hesh along for the walk.

The statue was weathered to the point of losing the intricate designs it had once. All the same, the two teenagers stood in awe of it; a human cloaked in ancient armor and the skin of dead animals while turning his broad nose upwards. At the base, Hesh read aloud words on a plaque.

“Therefore, my Hunters, beware that the light fades and the dark returns once more. In our unforgiving world, even brilliant lights will cease to burn. Orion Stellar, the First of the Hunters.” Azeban traced the statue’s face with a careful eye and pondered the granite gaze as a look of great courage or hidden fear.

“Not terribly optimistic words are they?” a voice said from behind the fountain. The teens watched a man of some age round the side. His hair was curly white clouds clinging to a thin head and his blue eyes clipped from Hesh to Azeban.

“What do you think, young lady? You seem awfully pensive.” Being addressed, Azeban chewed her lip in thought, but when she was about to answer the man raised a wrinkled hand.

“Don’t tell me! Having the thought is what’s important. Remember it each-time you pass this statue and the words at its base.” Hesh started to feel left out and interjected suddenly.

“It’s a death poem,” he said, “he wrote in the last few hours of his life.” Hesh had devoured every book he could find about the Hunters, histories included. Orion had picked up the habit of death poetry from the Vacuons and, for a few centuries, it was traditional that each Huntsman compose a poem to be read at their eulogy.

The old man nodded absently without words as he fixed the cuffs of his powder blue jacket and adjusting his matching tie, saying nothing. Hesh frowned a little, but held his tongue: the man could be a teacher after all. 

“Are you one of our professors?” she asked, innocently enough and the old man shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe,” he said. “If you two become students here, I’d imagine I would teach you at some point.”

“Nothing to imagine,” Hesh said, “we’re here and we’re freshmen. Got the acceptance letter and everything.”

“Ah, yes of course,” the old man smiled, “how silly of me to misspeak. Everything’s a-tisy with the new year and I’m forgetting myself already, young man. Serious lad, aren’t you?” Hesh narrowed his eyes and raised a brow.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Oh, pardon granted! But I’d watch that attitude around your fellow classmates, first impressions only happen once. Except for cases of amnesia, one would think.” Azeban’s processed the words and tried to form some kind of response, but Hesh had the opposite reaction.

“Well thank you, but I’m just fine.” He said stiffly and the old man, who’d been idly staring at the drydock, turned and gave him a genuine smile.

“Oh, you’re very welcome, lad!” Azeban snickered before she could stop herself. She’d never had an encounter quite so bizarre and watching Hesh get ruffled was funny.

“Fewer students this year,” the old man sighed watching the hopefuls gather awkwardly around the courtyard. Hesh shared a look with Azeban and rolled his eyes, she smiled at him sheepishly before speaking her own mind.

“We’ll make up for it with skill,” she said and Hesh grinned with her. The old man shrugged and said, “You just might, Miss Quinn. Good luck to you and you, Mr. Crane. I have some responsibilities that need attention.” Without another word, the old man strolled away.

“What a strange person,” Hesh muttered, “what do you think he meant by ‘good luck’?” Azeban was busy squinting at the lanky figure to respond to his questions. She posed one of her own.

“Hesh. We didn’t tell him our names, right?”

“I don’t think so. To be completely honest I was tuning him out after that comment about first impressions…” Hesh paused as he made the same realization she had.

They’d never introduced themselves.


	8. Old Dogs, New Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozpin finishes his welcoming speech only to discover that Beacon has an unwanted guest from his past as a Hunter.

Ozpin's eyes traveled over the students of Beacon Academy. His Academy.

"Your time at this school will teach you that knowledge can only take you so far. It is up to you to take the first step."

He finished his opening speech and relinquished the microphone to Dr. Goodwitch. Sidling to the right, he began examining the first-year students where they'd been herded in the front. He did a head count. 32 candidates. 8 teams, if they all managed to pass the initiation.

Not nearly as many as we'd hoped for. He avoided displaying to the crowd the disappointment and exhaustion slowly taking his mind. He needed coffee. He needed coffee with greater frequency these days, and by proxy slept less than he should.

"Oz?" Glynda whispered, the Headmaster forcefully peeled his eyelids open even as the stage's footlights burned him. The new students were gazing at him curiously and Glynda was subtly motioning for him to say something.

"Let's have a wonderful year, shall we?" His invitation was met with stray coughs and silence. Glydna's eyes fell shut with a saddened cringe. A few faculty members, seated away from the student body, shared confused looks among themselves.

Feral Greystoke finally made his move. He rose from his folding chair and began to address the audience with a voice that boomed throughout the auditorium, even without a microphone.

"Alright, all Apprentice Hunters clear the floor! Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors shift your gear and your asses to the dormitories!" Glynda pursed her lips at the Hunter's colorful language, resolving to speak to him later.

"New meat," he growled at the first-years, "pick a patch of floor in the ballroom, get some supper, and take an hour to yourselves. The rest of the day is yours, but tomorrow we're coming for you bright and early. Be ready!" Watchful stares from the new arrivals disappeared as the students began awkwardly weaving between their new peers in search of a spot to rest.

…

"That smug buffoon deliberately said everything I told him he shouldn't say!" Glynda growled her unrestrained grouses to the Headmaster as they stepped through the auditorium's back doors. Ozpin adjusted his dark glasses against the late summer sunlight to little effect. As he did, a sharp pain in his head spiked from the sound of a familiar, unwelcome voice.

"Ozzie! How long has it been?" The man's tone was, like the rest of him, thin and reedy with an attitude that dripped with slime.

"Hunter Duchy," Glynda snapped, "I clearly told you to wait in the Headmaster's office. We're trying to run a school, if you didn't notice. I know things are done differently at Haven, but-."

York stroked his needlepoint goatee and gave what he called a winning grin. Glynda felt her skin crawl as his equine teeth revealed themselves. Feral had once described York Duchy's whole demeanor as 'very punchable.' Glynda Goodwitch had, for the first time in memory, agreed with him on something.

"Not to worry, Glynda," he threw his arm around the Headmaster's shoulder, "I figured Ozzie could handle meeting me ahead of schedule. We'll just be touring the place while we talk, if you need us." York's blue eyes sparkled as he glanced at Ozpin's cane.

"That is, if we don't need to bust his walker out first! Right, Ozzie?" Ozpin stood stock still even as York slapped his shoulder and whinnied in laughter. He caught Glynda quietly bending her clipboard in her hands, making the wood whine.

"Dr. Goodwitch," Ozpin said in a patient call. "You've had the helm these past few days and steered all of us straight. I'll handle this for now. The sooner Mr. Duchy and I speak, the sooner he'll have no business here." York threw his head back and cackled with laughter again, missing the smirk Glynda sent her old friend.

"Had the helm," York mimicked. "You love your wordplay, Ozzie. Reckon she's 'rowed the boat' as well!" He brayed at his own joke and drew the shocked stares of several nearby students.

"Ship's don't require rowing," Glynda quipped. "Helms are used to steer ships, and sails give them their forward push." York rolled his eyes at her rebuttal, bored by her unflustered dryness.

"What would I know about it?" York scoffed.

"Next to nothing, I'm sure," she said with a polite smile. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a job to do." The sound of her heels clicking against the sidewalk faded as York leaned in to whisper in Ozpin's ear.

"I can see why you keep her around," he purred. "Shame to waste her, *ahem*, talents as a secretary." Ozpin shrugged York's arm off and adjusted his jacket before turning his gaze on the Hunter.

"Dr. Goodwitch is an excellent Huntress, that much is true. But she's also more than capable handling the day-to-day activity of our academy. The Lodge was more than happy to grant her request to take on administrative duties."

"Lighten up, Ozzie," York said and dug his hands into his ivory blazer's pockets. Ozpin noted that, unlike himself, York was trying his hardest to retain the wardrobe of his youth, even as his hair was thinning and rapidly going gray. Ozpin had been told that the black outfit was the best option for his own aging follicles, but he had fought for his green scarf.

"York, why are you here?" he asked, growing increasingly tired of the man's presence. York ignored him and took exaggerated steps away before motioning for the Headmaster to follow him. Ozpin smiled, turned in the opposite direction, and began to walk.

"Geez, Ozzie. Thin-skinned as ever," the lanky man wined. "Maybe I came by to see an old classmate, huh? How would you feel if I was here to visit you?"

"Surprised." Ozpin replied and took a deep breath as he watched his students, returning and new, milling about the fountain of Orion to enjoy the sunshine. He smiled as he saw two of the newer students, a large boy loaded with bags and skinny young man in frayed pants, conversing as they looked for the ballroom.

"Boys?" Ozpin called and their heads turned, "the ballroom is behind the tower." The larger of the two grinned and the skinny boy mumbled a nervous 'thank-you' before scurrying off. His friend introduced himself as Rhodizite Tungsten Henry and called after the skinny boy as he jogged away.

"Oh how sweet," York said in a wavy tone, "they're all making friends. Maybe those two will start a sewing circle together." Ozpin cut off the oncoming donkey laugh with a calm interjection.

"I wish they would. The uniforms around here need constant repair. I'll take it up with Glynda as an idea." York snorted and spat into the grass as he scanned for something else to comment on.

"Damn beautiful campus, Ozzie," he said, "though I imagine a smaller campus is easier to care for then say…one the size of Haven." Ozpin admired the work of their grounds staff. Every carefully arranged posy and finely trimmed dwarf maple had a methodical eloquence.

"Perhaps," he said, "though it's a shame Haven can't utilize some of the native plants in Mistral. The Apple trees and Asphodel would look beautiful with your architecture." He smiled to himself as he overlooked the empty benches surrounding their tranquil manmade ponds.

"The students here love to study outside during the warmer months. And in winter, the snowball fights can become truly… what's that word they use? 'Epic'." York yawned and rolled his neck.

"Well the Haven students need to focus more on their sparring and tracking skills. We're not moonlighting as some liberal arts school. Speaking of, have you seen what they're doing at Spotlight this semester? Abstract sculptures all over the place! Cacao needs his head examined!" Ozpin's mind moved to grant York's comment another riposte, but the man's words disturbed him this time.

"Why were you at Spotlight?" Beacon's sister school in South Vytali was having its orientation day as well.

"Scoping out the competition Ozzie," he chortled, "you know how it is this year." York's beady eyes shrunk with glee at Ozpin's confused stare.

"Don't you? Well gramercy me, Ozzie! The rumors are circulating all over that the Lodge is going to close a school. We're all on the chopping block now, old boy." York drew his hand across his neck and lolled his tongue out before giving a harsh snicker.

"I don't waste my time keeping up with idle rumors. No Headmaster should, not that you'd ever know that York."

Ozpin held his breath as he felt the mental barbs of York's presence getting under his skin. He knew that insulting York, easy as it would be, was a waste of his valuable time. The rumors had traveled across his desk first from Glynda, then from Feral, and then the other school Hunters.

But York knowing about it meant Headmaster Geat knew about it. And Headmaster Geat never acted unless she was certain.

"Either way, here I am, and what's the harm of me stopping by anyway? Kwintos never needs me around, Ozzie. She's got the student body under her thumb. And if a student steps out of line" York clenched both his hands, smiling as he twisted them in a wringing motion "I grind em' back into shape and she's satisfied."

York spotted a pair of first-years with a hungry look that reminded of a shark. Ozpin could hear the gears in his brain spinning as he plotted out punishments for them. York specialized in humiliation, and took pride in breaking students like they were wild horses. The thin Hunter gave Ozpin a conspiratorial wink and advanced on them. Ozpin's knuckles turned white as he squeezed his cane's head, but he followed without a word.

"I mean sure, if he read your trunk he might have known your name, but my bag just says 'Azeban'! How would he know my last name was Quinn?" the Faunus girl was examining her duffle bag from every angle. A human boy with brown hair was barely holding his steamer trunk atop his thigh, his face pinched with exertion.

"Could we continue this conversation after we get to the ballroom?" he grunted.

"You kids aren't getting into trouble are you?" York said in a tone much louder than necessary. The boy, shocked by the sudden appearance of Ozpin, began to shift his trunk off his leg. York smiled as he held up his palm and motioned for him to keep holding it.

"A bit more than you can handle, kiddo? Well, let the burn in your muscles be a lesson the next time you pack." The Faunus reached over and accepted half the burden of the weight, the boy sighed loudly and rolled his right shoulder with a grimace.

"Slowing you down is he?" York asked while giving a studious smirk.

"Not at all, sir. I'm in no hurry!" she chirped. Ozpin smiled at the display, happy to see friendships forming amongst his students already. That boded well for the team selection tomorrow.

"And if you were in a hurry? What then, young lady?" York asked without a moment's hesitation. He stretched out a lanky arm and pointed far down the avenue of the campus, the two teens followed his finger with curious eyes.

"Let's say a Beowulf is barreling down this way at full speed from roughly 100 yards. You'd been in a hurry then, I wager. You'd stop to help him carry his luggage then, I suppose?" A scowl began to form on the boy's face.

"I'd drop my trunk at that point, sir," he interjected, "I wouldn't make her carry something so useless if a Beowulf was chasing us."

"Not that he'd even need to," the girl said, grinning, "I can handle one measly Beowulf all by myself." She placed her fists on her hips and revealed the gleaming steel of a weapon on her belt.

"What about two dozen?" York asked. She frowned and looked upwards in thought before giving him a sheepish smile.

"I suppose I'd need help then, sir. Two dozen Beowulves chasing us? Why would Hessian still be carrying his trunk at that point?" Her friendly snickering died down at York's stone face.

"One Grimm is no laughing matter, Apprentice. Several dozens of them would be much less funny, I think." The girl nodded and her ears folded back. The boy, Hessian, pursed his lips at York and came to her defense.

"I'd help her," he said, "and remember, sir, I wouldn't want her to help me carry a steamer trunk in the middle of a Grimm attack."

"No trunk? Very well, young man," York said, "let's pretend it's you." Hessian's forehead wrinkled from surprise and York's smile grew an inch wider.

"You've been crippled, your legs are useless," he said, leaning forward and making use of the few inches he had on the young man, "you can't fight and she can't fight them off alone."

"I wouldn't leave him!" the girl called out.

"There you are, Hessian! She won't leave you behind. She'll risk her life defending you. Is that what you'd want her to do? She should throw away her chance to escape safely and drag you along like a steamer trunk?" Hessian's eyes widened and his mouth moved without a sound.

"York," Ozpin said firmly, "these two have to get to the ballroom, and I believe you and I have business our own, correct?" York leaned out of the two first year's headspace and eyed Hessian over. From a glance he could tell he was removed of all spunk, with his back straight and nothing to say. He grinned again and patted Hessian's shoulder twice.

"Lighten up, kid! You've got your whole life ahead of you, after all. Alright Ozzie. Let's get back to it." York walked away with a whistle on his lips and the Headmaster lagged behind a moment, hearing the girl hiss under her breath.

"Ass." Ozpin turned back to them and caught her gaze. Ozpin couldn't blame her for being nettled by York's remarks, but he had a zero tolerance policy for sassing peers at his academy: whether towards a senior Hunter like York or a member of the janitorial staff.

"He is your senior Hunter, young lady." he said unkindly. She gasped and apologized rapidly before trying to explain herself, but Ozpin wasn't fooled. She was only upset because she'd been heard. Ozpin shook his head and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"It's fine," he sighed, "we're all a bit tired from our long trips here, and there is still so much work to be done. Just try and keep to your manners as you settle in." He turned to them with his full attention and watched them both more closely. "I'm sorry, I never asked your names."

"Azeban Quinn," the girl said while biting her lip. The boy, who'd been glumly staring at his boots, suddenly stood at attention with a crisp greeting.

"Hessian Crane, sir," he said. He hid his nervousness well, but Ozpin could still see the impact of York's words lasting on his face. Ozpin chided himself mentally for not guiding York away from these two. The damage was done, and the doubt was planted.

"C'mon, Ozzie!" York called. As Hessian looked to the voice, Azeban saw the shadow deepen on her Headmaster's face. She went to her new aquantance's side and gave him reassuring words.

"Don't listen to that… Senior Hunter, Hessian. We'll be the best Hunters he's ever seen." She looked at Ozpin hopefully. He didn't nod or agree but he did gesture to the students all around them before he spoke.

"There's a motto here at Beacon, Mr. Crane: 'Never alone.' Every student who's come through this academy has heard it at least once." A smile came to his face without his realizing and he took in the sight of the school. His school.

"Never alone," he repeated to himself.

"Ozzie!" York called again.

"I'll see you both tomorrow with your peers. Ms. Quinn. Mr. Crane."

"Goodbye, Headmaster Ozpin," Azeban said.

"Sir," Hessian inclined his head. Ozpin walked to York's side like a man walking to his own hanging and was greeted with another one of his colleague's "jokes". He began to fantasize of all the ways he could cause York great suffering and get away with it. I deserve a medal if he survives the next hour.

"Spend enough time tying their shoes for them?" he asked. They continued towards the base of the main campus tower and stepped into the air-conditioned lobby before he responded. As soon as the door shut behind them, Ozpin spun on him and let his control slip momentarily.

"York, what do you want exactly? Tell me why you're here and stop wasting my time." Ozpin tried not to cringe at the smile York gave him.

"Geat would like me to observe your team selection, Ozzie," he said, "before you get all upset, she sent the request to you directly. Maybe your secretary didn't get it to you?" Ozpin used his best willpower to keep his face neutral and his voice from trembling with rage.

"No, York. You can leave immediately if you think I'll…" York's smile dropped from his face and he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not asking, Ozpin," he snapped. "Frankly, I'd rather be back at a real Hunter's Academy than scrounging around this place for halfway decent warriors. Geat gave me an order and I'm following it. Let's discuss this in your office, I'm sure you still keep some whiskey up there." Ozpin didn't know if it was York's attitude that fueled his anger or the fact that he was right.

"You won't be staying for the selection, York," Ozpin stated as the elevator shot up the tower's shaft at lightning speed. In the confined metal box, York's laugh was accompanied by the smell of his candied breath.

"Ozpin, Geat can bring this to the Old Man and he'll side with her, like he always does. The difference is whether you embarrass yourself by making a big huff. If one of the academies is closing, the students have to go somewhere, Haven is an option." Ozpin didn't like to think of his students going to the old marble citadel in Mistral. It was a school of hard knocks in a literal sense of the word.

"Hmm, is that Ozzie, the Great and Terrible, stunned to silence at last?" York said as an electric ding preceded the elevator doors sliding open. They stepped into a sparsely decorated office surrounded by glass panes that separated the furniture from giant moving gears.

The steady tick-tock of the great clock outside was a source of peace for the Headmaster and served to annoy unwanted guests. York paid it no mind as he brazenly rummaged through Ozpin's desk and withdrew a bottle of Atlas Cream.

"Terrible stuff." He grimaced after one pull, but didn't put it down.

"It's meant to be mixed with coffee," Ozpin said flatly.

"Of course, got to keep up your appearances for the parents," York snorted, "what happened to you Ozzie? I swear, ever since Mountain Glenn, it's like the curtain's been drawn back around you."

"York. Stop this. Now." Ozpin was reminded why he had the cane specially made from steel. Anything less would've crumpled in his grip long ago. The lanky man replied in a quiet coo that seemed to dare Ozpin to get angrier.

"You can't tell me what to do anymore, Ozpin." York sighed while shaking his head and took another swig.

Ozpin watched him sip his liquor away as he thought of the man in his memory whose shell was seated at his desk. Ozpin remembered a boy devoid of maliciousness that charmed teachers into giving him a B- instead of C. One who laughed with his friends while explaining every crazy change he'd make once he was Huntsmaster of the Lodge. He remembered having a friend named Yorkie.

But repeated failures had turned that skinny and glib teenager into the rail-thin Hunter mooching on his whiskey.

"York, the friends I lost…we lost… they changed us all. You changed too. Your jokes used to be funny." York didn't look back at his old friend. He kept his stare down on the bottle in his hand, pretending it was more interesting to him.

"You used to have a backbone. 'Oz the Great and Terrible'. Became a teacher because he was too good for the rest of us lesser mortals. Well, guess what Headmaster Ozpin? Another Headmaster wants to take stock of your students in case this miserable school comes down around your ears."

"They don't need the added stress," Ozpin said.

"I'll stick to the shadows. You have my word. I'll be on my best behavior."

"You'll leave right after. No exceptions." Ozpin scowled at him and York returned with a hateful glare all his own. There was no hint of that twisted humor or mirth in his face.

"With a spring in my step, Ozzie. Too many bad memories on these manicured lawns of yours." He glanced through the window at a distant gray wasteland on the city's edge. "Too many friends who should be here, but aren't." A moment later, he wiped his face and walked past Ozpin with a sip of whiskey.

"I'll go sleep in one of your dorm rooms, everyone knows you've got plenty a' empty ones nobody needs. Thanks for the drink, Ozzie."

Ozpin stood in the office as the elevator hummed down the tower and away from earshot. He let his cane clatter to the floor before reclining in his desk chair and getting a few fitful hours of sleep.


	9. Abominable Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the students prepare for their launch into the Emerald Forest, yet another uninvited guest arrives on Beacon property, and this one's intentions are far darker than the first.

Author’s Note: To everyone following HARP, I’ve just recently arrived in Paris for a semester abroad, which means I’m currently feeling out my new schedule for times and places I can write chapters. This means the next chapter might be a while off. To hold you over, I’ve combined two smaller chapters into one big one. We’re working on getting you the next ones soon, so please bear with us. Thanks to hector for editing.

Editor’s Note: Dayum son, that’s a big chapter.

…

A colossal creature marched through the wet grass of an abandoned forest. It paid no special attention to the slurping of wet mud around its giant hooves, or to the branches of the forest’s canopy scraping at its sides. Neither the earth below nor the trees just above could make it stop or stumble. 

Its elk-shaped body held up a hideous head. Fangs of ranging sizes hid behind its lips and ivory plates armored its snout. Glimmers of moonlight made its orange-red eyes glow like a dying sunset. 

Crowning its head was a pair of thick, winding horns that reached out like a bird’s flapping wings. Designs of bright red lines coursed like veins across its bony features, marking it as a member of the Grimm. 

The creature did not consider itself to be a Grimm, though. That was a human word it did not, nor could have, chosen for itself. A human sound they would scream if they managed to see it coming. But titles were of no importance to the beast. All it cared for was fulfilling its purpose. Destroy the humans. 

The beast hung its head low to see the woodland world below. All creatures went silent as it lumbered through the forest. Wolves and foxes crouched to the ground and scurried away in its wake. The birds sank into their nests to hid their eggs and even the lunar moths ceased to fly. 

The Grimm could sense them all, but did not give them so much as a twitch from its tattered ear. Its eyes were focused on a blue light blinking through the leaves and shadows of the forest. As the sleepy monster drew closer, the sound of a steady buzzing became clear.

This Grimm was old enough to know the sound. It recalled finding many human creations where the buzzing was loud and unending. It knew of the sound’s violent power and how the humans worshiped it, but it would never know it was called electricity. 

It came upon a clearing where manmade walls went for miles, ending at the base of a distant cliff. The walls were fencing off a vast portion of forest, standing tall enough to halt even a titan. The Elder Grimm felt a familiar rush begin to flow through its body as it listened to the fence hum. Men are close, or will be soon. 

Nearby were a dozen young Grimm traveling within a pack. A youngling Beowolf held its snout to the steel wall’s massive humming wires while making curious sniffs. It sank its jaw into one and was greeted with a starburst of blue at its jaws. 

Hot and cold pains tore through its mind in a flash. The wolf’s jawline froze in place, letting bolts of electricity fill its body. Once the wolfs’ faceplate was blackened and its fangs were cooked a second burst of white sparks tossed it far away and onto its side. The older Grimm watched the youngling twitch in a final grasping for its life before dissolving into black mist. 

When the Elder stepped forward the younger Grimm swept away in response, lowering their bodies and hiding their teeth. They watched with caution from behind trees and shrubbery as the Elder Grimm approached the fence. 

It huffed at the structure and didn’t hesitate. With a swift motion, it curled its neck downward, aimed the tips of its horns at the wall and rammed them against the wires. 

Electric bolts arced between its antlers as they stretched the steel wires forward. White hot pain riveted throughout the beast’s body. The monster felt rage build in its gullet as it took a single, slow step towards the agony. 

The wolves watched as the creature pushed against mankind’s lightning metals with all its might and being. Its vision disappeared in a fog of electric blue and all noise became the crackling of the Elder’s horns as tongues of electric bolts degraded them. 

The wires whined in their sockets and the steel frame holding them made a deep groan as it slowly folded beneath the monster’s weight. The elder bore its teeth as it took another agonizing step forward. 

Its roar could be faintly heard behind the deafening sounds of crackling bolts and tearing steel. The noises all grew higher before they reached their crescendo in a series of sharp snaps. 

The smoke settled to reveal the beast on the fence’s opposite side. Electricity faded from the Elder Grimm, cuing its body to heal itself. The facsimiles of its nerve endings and bone structure folded back to the original shape, and the charcoaled portion of its antlers crumbled away. They swiftly reformed as bone-white spears atop its head. 

The other Grimm inched out of their cover and began to gather by the Elder’s flanks, calmly approaching in deference. Beowolves were not like the Elder’s kind. They needed leadership to function best. With a single toss of its mighty head, the Elder gored the nearest one while letting out a deep roar. 

The pack dispersed, weaving between trees as they sprinted away. The echoes of its statement faded into the night just as the impaled beowolf melted off its horn. The Elder turned, its pace sluggish and tired once more. 

While drawing a deep breath, the beast felt the presence of many auras. The humans here are young. They are weak. Tantalized by the opportunity, the Grimm kept up its march into the Emerald Forest. 

 

...

Azeban laid awake in the ballroom for hours. Nightmares of red eyes in a dark forest had woken her hours ago and deterred her from falling back asleep. 

She instead stared out a nearby window at the sky, watching it fade from deep blue to the soft sapphire of dawn. The whole time, she’d been thinking about nothing but High Crimson. 

Azeban didn’t regret coming to Beacon, but she didn’t know how else to categorize the feeling in her gut. This early, she’d hear her mother’s sandals squishing grass as she walked around camp checking the treads on the Caterpillar and saying good morning to the other families. The thought that she wouldn’t hear that for months made her stomach churn. 

She slipped form her sleeping bag and tip-toed over the snoozing bodies of her new classmates. Her eyes made the shadowy room bright enough to navigate without stepping on a single toe. She entered the locker room, shuddering at the cool tiles under her feet. 

“52…54…53,” she dialed the numbers into her new lock and pressed the latch up, undoing the steel box that managed to hold all her belongings. She reached behind her duffle bag to retrieved her glaive with care. 

While sitting cross-legged on the locker room’s wooden bench, she laid the weapon across her lap and examined it. Seeing her reflection in the blade made her smile as she thought about fighting Grimm without her grandmother hovering behind her.

Clasping the grip of her Dawnlander felt like shaking hands with her oldest friend. She scanned the locker room once before rising to her feet and assuming a battle stance. With a button press, Dawnlander extended to its full length. 

Up! Left! Right! Downward! The blade followed her thoughts and never missed her imagined marks. She chanced a twirl, shortening the blade to clear the lockers and extending once more. 

She let the blade kiss the surface of a body mirror hung on a support pillar, but it did not leave a mark. She smiled at her own accuracy. Azeban paused in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection, breathing evenly, eyes cold and determined. 

The door to the locker room was rudely swung open, making Azeban turn without thought. A screech ripped the air as her glaive dragged across the mirror’s glass, leaving a thick scar. A girl with cropped blonde hair quickly threw her hands up as the blade stopped an inch from her chest. 

“Easy, love,” she said softly, her eyes flicking between Azeban’s face and the sharp steel. Azeban collapsed her weapon and apologized profusely. 

“That was so stupid of me! I’m so sorry about…” she tapered off at the smile coming to the girl’s face. 

“Sorry? That was wicked!” she whispered. “I saw the whole thing. Thought for sure you’d cleave a locker in two, but you made swinging that thing look easy as breathing!” Azeban’s mouth hung slightly open for a second before it morphed into an uncertain smile. 

“Thank you,” she said meekly, “I’ve been training with it for years and…I just thought that if did a little practice I’d… um…I don’t know.” It felt silly and dangerous all the sudden, twirling her glaive around the locker room like a maniac.

“Get your head on straight?” The blonde girl offered with a grin, her bare feet clapped across the floor as she found her own locker. When Azeban peaked around the taller girl’s side, she saw pieces of leather armor neatly arranged in her space. 

“I was thinking jus’ the same thing,” she confessed. “Me mum always said the Sabbatarians fight faster than we think!” Azeban’s ears swiveled to catch the girl’s accented slang.   
“Saba-tare-ians?” She awkwardly mumbled.  
The blonde girl, who had been stroking the dual barrel of an enormous pistol pulled the decorate hammer back. When she aimed for the ceiling and squeezed the trigger, the clack of an empty cartridge was as loud as an ordinary gunshot. The sound bounced off the tiled walls and made Azeban jump.   
“Sorry, love,” she said with a shrug, “Xanthous Sabbatarian. Or just Xan, if you like. What’s your name, ringtail?”   
“Azeban Quinn,” she said distantly, distracted by the fierce looking revolver. It was large like a trumpet, adorned by baroque engravings of leaves that coiled around it’s barrel and formed three artsy sights.   
Xanthous noted her fascination and struck a pose with it. Somehow, even as she stood in her pink pajamas, the brandishing of her mighty handgun struck Azeban with a deep sense of awe. 

“Lemme introduce you. This lovely lady’s a Helsing .50 Cal,” she said with a sigh of affection. “Could rip the wing from a Nevermore mid-flight, provided you aim in the right place. I’ve seen this little dove break a Gargoyle into five pieces.” 

“Gargoyle?” Azbean asked. Xan made a face like she’d spotted a filthy bug. 

“Pug-nosed bastards. They like to skulk around in old bell towers and smokestacks,” she said, “which we got in spades back home in Foggy. Ever been, ringtail?” Azeban leaned against a locker, adopting a stance she thought looked relaxed and collected. 

“No,” Azeban said cooly, “I grew up in High Crimson. Grimm are all over the place there, but we don’t use guns to fight them very often.” Xanthous cackled and gestured toward the angry cut running sideways through the mirror. 

“Yeah, so I gathered,” she laughed. “No offense, ringtail, but me mum always says guns are the future. A well-aimed cannon will take off Grimm heads allot faster than any sword.” The girl’s philosophy made Azeban’s eyes practically roll out of her head, but she figured making a fuss about the subject wasn’t worth it.

“Your mom is a Hunter?” Azeban asked. “I come from a Hunter family too. Well, kind of.” 

“It’s a lovely thing, taking over the family business.” Xanthous spoke while she placed her Helsing back in the locker and slammed the door shut. 

“I guess,” Azeban said tenuously. She cleared her throat. “I mean, it was expected of me. High Crimson needs a Hunter and my number came up.” The words didn’t come out as a moan or a grievance, but they made Xan’s face pucker in a cringe, like she was sharing a sympathy pain.

“Innit grand?” she sneered with a sarcastic voice. “Someone else telling you what your future is?” The girl shook her head like a disappointed parent. Azeban began to try and slip out of the conversation, but Xan gave a heavy sigh and spoke up again. 

“I wanted to go to Haven, ringtail,” she groaned, “but me mum insisted I come here instead.” She made a cross-eyed face while mimicking a high pitched lecture. ‘Beacon’s where the Sabbatarians have always gone, Xan’. Apparently, that little tradition rules out any say I have.”

“Beacon’s a good school,” Azeban offered in condolence. “My grandmother studied here and she’s still alive.” The words ‘she’s still alive’ suddenly seemed more unimpressive to Azeban then it had back at home. 

Sequoia’s mentorship never made room for glory and grandstanding. Had Xanthous been caught spouting gloats about her pistol in High Crimson, Sequoia would have had her climbing trees for a week as punishment. Azeban had always found the rule to be unjust, but this girl was making her change her mind. 

“Not as good as Haven!” Xan shot back. “Haven teaches you the fun stuff without making a group project out of it!” 

“Well, it’s a good thing, learning how to work with others. I mean, that’s what real life is like.” Azeban protested. 

“Ugh. You should see the way they drag you down, though! I’ve had some bad partners before. Ones who just cling to their heels and never pull their weight. Its criminal! And when you lose points over them…” 

Xan growled while clutching her hands like a freeloader’s neck was between her palms. “That’s the final straw! No thanks, Ozpin. I work best alone.” Azeban’s head leaned back from the girl’s wild attitude. 

“Beacon’s still a great school, though. It’s the one everyone thinks of when they imagine hunter schools.” She smiled and remembered the ads for Beacon she’d heard on the radio as a child.   
‘From Mistral’s mountains to Vacuo’s plains, our Hunters are found protecting the people. Everyone knows a hunter from Beacon.’ She’d always liked that one. It must have been true, considering she knew one and she was child in the middle of the woods. 

“That means its old, ringtale, not that it’s the best choice. This place has been turning into a dump for ages. Didn’t you notice how few of us freshmen are here? What do you think that means?” Xan barely waited for a response.   
“It means Ozpin is broke! He probably won’t even replace that mirror you just marked up. At least Haven’s all in one piece!” The girl checked her surroundings, then crept over to Azeban’s side, leaning in for a whisper. 

“In fact, the word is there’s a man from Haven here right now,” she said, “scouting for talented young Hunters. Take my advice, ringtail, put on a good show at the exam today and get in his good graces.” The words made Azeban freeze up. 

Could it be true? Is Beacon really on the brink? She shuddered at the image of her returning High Crimson without a diploma. 

For them at High Crimson, affording Haven had been out of the question from the start, and she knew her Mother was against the school on an ethical level too. It had taken lien from the pockets of practically the whole clan to send her here to Beacon in the first place. Where could they hope to turn after this? 

Xan noticed her sudden pause and worried face which made her start to wonder. Had she been stomping on Azeban’s dream school? She formed a new subject as an apology. 

“Hey, you know what? Who cares which school we’re going to anyway, huh? We’re already luckier than the stars, you know?” Azeban looked back over to Xan with no effort to hide her confusion, one of her eyebrows high above the other.

“What?” The girl smiled wide as she continued.

“See, way I figure, we could’ve been born to any pair of parents on remnant, but we were born to Hunters. We grew up under them, and now here we are, learning how to be one of them.” Xan began to stare into space as she paced like a caged lioness. Azeban started backing up in instinct, a primal instinct telling her not to turn her back on the girl.

“They haven’t felt a real thrill until they’ve killed a Grimm stone-dead, spitfire. They’ve haven’t lived, really.” Azeban’s tail began to frizz up and she took a small step back. 

The words rang a familiar tone in her brain, cozying up to the words of Cyrus and his father from the day before. Humans always get their way. The word ‘they’ was cropping up again, and it didn’t feel coincidental. 

“Not everyone needs to kill Grimm,” she begged. “Some people have amazing skills at other stuff, like art or science. Hunters are just people who focus on fighting Grimm.” The gunwoman gave an exaggerated shrug.

“Never seen a painter with superhuman strength. That’s all I’m trying to say.” The doors behind them suddenly opened. A crowd of young Hunters in pajamas were passing the door to the person behind them as the locker room filled up. 

“Guess everyone’s waking up now,” Xanthous sighed. “We’ll have to continue this talk later, once the whole testing nonsense is done.” She busied herself gathering up the armor and gear from her locker. “Let’s just hope they throw something big at us, right? I’d love to see a Tai Jutsu for the first time!”

Xan stopped on her way to the door and spun around, pointing a couple fingers at Azeban shaped like a gun and mimed out firing it at her. “Keep an eye out for me while we’re out there! Great minds need to stick together, and all that.” She smiled to herself while shouldering the door open.

Azeban used the locker’s door to hide her face, not bothering with an answer. Though she was glad their talk was finally over, the conversation replayed in her head, and Xan’s final point began to grind her nerves thin. 

In High Crimson “they” had never meant to her what it did in this much larger world. She was beginning to understand that now, and why it was testing her patience. 

Xanthous and Cyrus were different sides of the same coin. All they talked about was grouping people up and dismissing them as a crowd. None taken as individuals. Just a group of the same thing. Them. 

Wel,l I guess I’m no better. I’m doing it right now, aren’t I? 

The thought made her squint with a headache, more confused than she’d ever been in the woods. She set about retrieving her own effects and began to walk swiftly for the door, hoping she could find better company if she was just fast enough. 

She nearly knocked a phone loose from a boy siting down beside her, who gave her a frown before switching it on. 

You Up? The text bubble hovered on the screen of his Papyrus as a response came back. Rip gazed at the contact name above their last conversation: Roe. 

Are you?! Came up before he had a chance to follow up. Rip smiled and ran his thumb across the touch screen, the phone clicking softly as he keyed in his answer. 

Can’t sleep. Miss you too much. <3 

It hasn’t even been a day, Rip. Rip could imagine a pair of pretty green eyes rolling underneath soft tan eyebrows. He teased Roe further. 

Every minute away from you is like an eternity on a bleak, gray shore. Each rush of the sea wind whispering…”sup, boo?” Rip took a seat on one of the wooden benches and crossed his legs waiting for a response. 

You’re a smartass.

But you admit that I am smart? ;) Rip knew Roe would’ve frowned hard to hide a smile if he’d been there. 

You get a roommate yet? 

No. They’ve got some test for us today or something. Its weird. We all had a big slumber party in the ballroom last night. Rip flexed his toes and yawned. 

Is it, like, going to be dangerous or something? Rip thought carefully. Lying to Roe always felt wrong, but Rip worried just as much what would happen if he simply said he was going to be fighting Grimm. 

It’ll be fine, boo. I got teachers watching me so closely they’re practically riding on my back. I’ll text you right after. Rip was relieved when he saw Roe’s next message was a change in subject. 

You doing ok? Rip’s mouth became a thin line and he uncrossed his legs, leaning forward into slouch. He stared at the text for a minute and typed in an answer. 

Its ritzy and everyone here has never met each other before how do you- He deleted it and began again. So far I know one dude from Atlas without really talking to him- Delete. 

Fine. He winced the second after he hit send. 

Rip…please give it a shot. It’s not like you’re in prison or anything. You can leave if you want. Rip smiled in spite of himself, that was the first time someone had said that in weeks. 

Tell that to Miriam and Bolad Zi. 

And who would I say I was, exactly? Or did you finally say something about me, Mr. Ripper? He flushed at the use of his pet name. Roe could bend any conversation around and pit their secrecy against Rip like a trump card. 

Nope nope nope. Not doing this rn. Focusing on test. Rip grinned impishly. Hey, I know what’ll cheer you up. It’ll take me a while to get to your house, wanna meet halfway in a motel? 

Roe’s reply followed quickly, without hesitation. I hate you so much. 

Rip saw the words but took no offense. Roe loved to be flirted with, even when it derailed the conversation. It was a trump card all his own. 

Hate with a passion, boo. 

Ok, this is getting ridiculous and I have work soon so I’ll just say it: I got promoted. Rip’s eyebrows shot up as the news purified his thoughts of mischief.   
He felt tempted to call, perhaps just to hear Roe’s voice, but given the increasing amount of ears all around him he chose to keep the conversation silent. 

Congrats, Roe. You deserve it. And here you always said Sequin was a frigid bitch. 

Oh she’s still totally still a frigid bitch but now I’ve been moved up to actually working the floor. I guess she realized most people can stand seeing a Faunus working in a boutique. 

That’s my Roe, Rip texted back, erasing the social lines, making history. I can see the movie version of your biography already. I bet they’d write me out ;P

I wouldn’t let them, Ripper. <3

My hero. <3 Rip stood up, feeling ready to take on the world. 

Chat later, boo. Gotta show these drips how the Ripper goes to work. Good luck at the boutique. So proud of you. A series of hearts was sent in reply before Rip set his phone aside and opened his locker. 

His eyes locked on the package he’d received from yesterday. The mysterious cardboard box had fled his thoughts upon arriving at the school, but now his curiosity returned with a vengeance. In the quiet cold of the tiled room, the sound of ripping tape was deafening. 

He parted the folded top and gasped quietly at what was inside. Royal violet armor was neatly stored between white packing peanuts. A folded piece of paper sat on top. He opened it and felt his heart melt. 

A collage of signatures from the orphanage kids were above a picture of a skinny stick figure in purple, who was kicking a frowny-faced Beowulf. Violence shouldn’t be this adorable, he thought. 

Two notes stood out in neat, adult handwriting. Vert’s was short and to the point. Give ‘em hell, Rip! Miriam’s note was a little longer.   
I know how homesick you must be feeling, Rip, and I want you to know that if I seemed distant today, I’ll burst into tears once you’re out the door and the rush is over. 

Rip’s smile shrank and guilt started to gnaw at him as the note continued.   
We all really pushed you towards this: me, Vert, and Bolad. I just want you know that we’re proud of you whatever you choose. Rip wouldn’t have noticed a bomb going off as he read her words. 

Rip, I’ll worry about you at that school and I won’t be able to help myself but there’s no one in the world who’d make me feel safer than you. A Hunter with a heart like yours is what this world needs right now, Rip. We’re all thinking about you.  
\- Miriam Coal. 

Rip folded the paper against his chest and placed it safely in his locker. He unloaded his combat gear, shiny and new lightweight protection. It probably cost a fortune. A dried desert flower lay at the bottom wrapped in a strip of purple cloth and Rip laughed when he saw it. Bolad wasn’t one for words.

Rip changed into a sleek black under suit and armored himself piece by piece. The shin guards snapped into place without problem and the chest breathed easy and didn’t restrain his sense of reach. 

He slid fingerless gauntlets on his hands, the knuckles capped with four pronounced steel balls. His lightweight combat boots were made like sandals, forgoing laces for a series of tightly coiled straps which snuggly clutched his feet. 

He finished dressing by wrapping the purple ribbon from his master around his head and pulling it tight. Once he was finished, the outline of his wiry frame had doubled in dimensions, making him look just a bit taller, just a bit harder, and just a bit stronger.

He struck the air twice with a jab from each hand and spun around with a vicious kick, the ribbon’s tail fluttering around his shoulders a second later. He looked at himself in the full body mirror and smiled. 

Just give it a shot. He thought to himself. Perhaps there was wisdom to that advice he hadn’t seen. 

He picked up his Papyrus and took a picture of himself, sending it to Roe without any text to accompany it. 

He walked through the ballroom where the rest of the apprentices were rising and shuffling towards the locker room to dress. He shouldered open one of the massive entrances doors and stepped outside with his head held high. 

As he emerged from the locker room, he saw the rest of the first years rising, if not exactly shining, from their sleeping bags. He ambled past in his battle gear, coming to the living tower from Atlas who’d accompanied him to the school. Rhod was mid push-up when he noticed a pair of purple combat boots and lifted his head. 

 

“Bloody hell, Rip. Look at you!” his face split into a grin. 

 

“Thanks, Rhod,” he said. “But hey, listen. I really need to apologize how I was yesterday.”

 

“How you were?” Rhod asked. The apology felt out of nowhere to Rhod, but he could hear the sincerity in Rip’s voice which made him stand up to look Rip in the eye. Rip returned the stare by leaning back to see his face. 

 

“For being a moody little prick,” he extended a hand, “and just all around bad company. You’ve been nothing but a pal to me and I haven’t been returning the favor.” Rhod took the handshake and smiled faintly as he nodded yes. 

 

His grip was gentler than Rip expected, making him notice how carefully Rhod controlled his muscles. If they were going into battle today, it helped to know someone this big could work their strength with wisdom. 

 

An idea popped into his head. 

 

“Hey, I know what’ll make us square,” Rip began. “Why don’t you help me test out this cherry new armor?” He knocked the chest piece and watched Rhod admire the craftsmanship. 

Rhod heard the request and harkened back to the times he and the miners blew off steam in the fighter pits together. No one had actually riled him up, but he thought that maybe Rip needed this more than he did. Rhod gave a shrug and an ok, prompting Rip to root his feet into the ground as a battle stance. 

 

“Hit me,” Rip pointed to the center of his armor and Rhod reared back, his hand closing into a fist the size of a pineapple. 

“Hold on!” Rip all but shouted, throwing up his hands, “Not full force! Just…twenty percent.” Rhod nodded and Rip’s hands dropped. 

 

In a blink of the eye, Rip was spread out on the floor and staring at the ceiling. He felt the outline of Rhod’s punch still in his chest as his body’s center began to go numb.

 

For some reason, he found himself tensing muscles in his throat. He wondered why, his mind still in a daze, until he recalled Bolad Zi’s lessons on forming battle reflexes. 

 

His body had noticed it was falling before he did and thoughtlessly curled his head toward his chest to protect it from smashing against the ballroom floor. 

 

Rip pictured himself having forgotten to role inward, being rushed to the hospital with a cracked skull the morning before tests had even started. 

 

It made him silently praise his master for having drilled those brutal tests into his subconscious. They had saved him from failing a life changing test in the most embarrassing of ways. Rhod leaned over him, blotting out the room’s already dim lights. 

 

“Alright?” he asked, his deep voice loud even in a whisper. 

 

“That was twenty percent?” he groaned. “What the hell is one hundred?” Rhod smirked as he reached out to help him up but Rip waved him back. 

 

As soon as Rhod had cleared the floor Rip balled up his legs and half-rolled back before pushing off his hands to land on his feet. He checked his armor for any damage and found nothing amiss. 

 

“You’re nimble.” Rhod chuckled. 

 

“And you hit like truck, Rhod,” Rip snapped back. 

 

“You should see me with a hammer,” Rhod cracked his knuckles, “I hit even harder than that.” Rhod looked Rip over and his brow furrowed. 

 

“Speaking of which, mate,” he said, “where’s your weapon?” Rip held up his hands and gave him an apologetic look. 

 

“You’re not serious!” Rhod laughed, causing Rip’s smile to thin out into a sly smirk. 

 

“Want me to hit you? Twenty percent?” Rip asked. Rhod held his hand to his mouth to hide his grin and nodded once. He squared up and slapped his stomach, trying not to laugh as Rip took a strange stance with his index and middle finger extended like a claw. 

 

“Ready when you-,” white hot pain shot flared up on his shoulder. Looking down at Rip, he saw the boy exactly as he was a moment ago. He hadn’t even seen Rip touch him. 

 

Well, this lad is full of surprises, aint he? Rhod thought, rubbing the ache in his shoulder.

 

He grunted and grit his teeth as the feeling reached a peak and slowly faded away. When he looked back to Rip, he was already walking away, his hands linked behind his head while he hummed a foreign melody. 

 

He seemed to strut away with a bit more confidence in his steps, like a full-fledged hunter ready to be slung into danger. 

 

…

“You know Oakley? Sometimes, I just want my day to go by without a hitch.” Feral Greystoke rubbed the simple gold earring in his left lobe as he examined the remains of the perimeter fence. His company shot back without hesitation.

“Then why the hell did you become a hunter?” Feral didn’t bother answer, as he had no rebuttal. Oakley watched him examine the fence more closely before she spoke up again.

“How many is it, Feral?” she asked as she shifted her rifle atop her folded arms. The Hunter took another cursory glance over the tracks in the bare, ripped up earth. He saw the telltale signs of Beowulf claws marks ripping through soil and Ursa paw patting them into the earth. 

“Dozens on the surface. But if every Grimm has been trickling in through here…” he let the words dangle. Oakley tapped her boot heel on the ground rhythmically as she considered their options. 

“We should call this in,” her drawl was calm but Feral had known her long enough to detect the trace of anxiety in it. Feral couldn’t ignore the feeling in his gut either; the broken fence boded ill for the team selection that morning. 

“Ozpin will need one tall cup of coffee when he hears this,” Oakley sighed. “Nothing bigger than an Ursa slipped through, right?” She paced along the breach in the fence wire and squinted into the distance. 

“Not that I can tell,” Feral began, “it seems like it was just the little bastards. Though if you’d kindly not step there!” His words jumped into a shout as the tip of her boot tread into his line of sight, she offered him a sour look. 

“We need a rain check on this selection, Feral,” she said, “that is, if you really just can’t figure out what could have gotten in…” Feral shot up, his fists clenched tight.

“Damnation, Oakley! You pacing and running your mouth won’t help me figure out the exact torque of how screwed this situation is!” 

Oakley stared him down but made no attempt to argue, which in her manners constituted an apology. Feral shut his eyes and massaged his lids as he sighed heavily, waiting for the irritation to leave his system. Another pause of silence went by before Oakley’s mouth reopened. 

“Sends a chill up my spine, Feral,” Oakley took in the fence once more, “if a herd of Beowolves bunched up against those wires they’d be barbecued in minutes. There’s a real monster out there, I know you can feel it too.” She set her rifle down butte first, keeping her left hand steady on the barrel. She needed a cigarette. 

Oakley racked her brain for anything powerful enough to shrug off an electric current and force its way through steel, none of the suspects were good. She scrounged through the pocket of her pants and withdrew a pack of Deadwood Specials. 

Feral cocked his head at the sound of her tapping out a single cigarette against her thigh. He looked up in time to see her place it between her lips and hold a worn gold lighter to the end as she took a drag. Oakley sighed out the first puff of smoke and let her head fall back for a moment. 

“Glynda would be pissed if she caught you smoking,” Feral said and knelt back down to the plethora of Grimm tracks, his good eye carefully tracing every shape.

“Yeah well, that crotch-buster isn’t here right now is she? We should call her first though, now that you mention it. She’ll back us up to Ozpin on this.” She tapped ash onto the forest floor while paying no mind to Feral’s tracking. 

Feral barely considered her words as he caught sight of a hoof print, one as wide as a single tile of sidewalk. It was older than the others. 

“Back ‘us’ up, Oakley?” he asked, gauging the direction of the hoofprint and scouring the ground for further tracks. She spun on him and her red braid whipped the air. 

“Yes, Feral,” she took a long drag and collected her thoughts, “I won’t insult you by questioning how well you understand Grimm. So that withstanding, why exactly aren’t we in agreement on this?” Feral stared mouth agape as he traced another large hoof print hidden in the remains of a berry bush. 

“Agreement on what?” he asked, half-listening. 

Oakley stamped the ground once and tried not to shred the cigarette as she grit her teeth. Feral didn’t take the bait and followed ruts in an oak tree up past branches bent to their limit, some snapped off from tension. 

“Feral the kids can’t come out here today!” She finally screamed. “Whatever tore through this fence will make a fast meal out of them and you know it!” 

Seeing Feral stare at the treetops, she rolled her eyes. “And by the way, I can see you’re picking up a trail right now, so spit it out. What is it?” 

“These branches have been bent back,” Feral said pointing upwards. 

“Your point is?” Oakley said around her cigarette. 

“Bent. Not shredded or cracked off from force. You’re the techie, the wires weren’t cut up were they?” Oakley scanned the trees and felt the forest closing in on her all the sudden. The wires hadn’t been cut, they’d been snapped like guitar strings tuned too tight. 

“It didn’t charge through or bite them loose,” she whispered, “son of bitch just pushed against the fence until the wires snapped.” She let her cigarette go limp between her lips as the thought brought forth gruesome memories. Feral scratched his head and searched for trees with bent branches. 

“You think? Pushing against an electric fence would’ve been…”

“Slow.” She said, her eyes going wide as the picture in her head began to take a shape she half-remembered. Antlers reached up into the shadows of a snowy forest, eyes glinted as they caught sight of her. Her cigarette fell from her lips as she stared in thought.

“I was going to say tough, but yeah it would be slow,” Feral frowned as he saw her distant look, “Oakley, is this starting to sound familiar?” 

“Slow and tough,” she said, “walks through things like they aren’t even there.” Her cigarette fell from her fingers and she ground it into ash beneath her heel. 

“Oakley?” he asked softly, “What are we dealing with?” 

“Feral Greystoke can’t figure it out,” she laughed hollowly, “needs me to chip in after all, huh? Ozpin will shut down this selection if I have any say in it.” She willed her fingers to stop shaking long enough to load a Dust round into her rifle. 

 

“It’s a Wendigo, Feral!” she snarled with a trembling voice. “A Wendigo is walking around these woods and we let it happen. Call Ozpin! Tell him we’re postponing this selection.” As Oakley desperately fished out another cigarette, Feral slipped his Scroll from his pants and keyed the number in rapidly. 

“Tracks look like an elk’s is that consistent?” he asked, worry creeping into his voice. 

“Well it looks like an elk if a Ursa looks like a bear,” Oakley said, “but its much bigger than any elk I’ve ever seen. Tracked and fought one a while back.” Feral kept his eye on the trees as the phone rang. 

“Never told me that one, Oakley.” Feral thought they knew each other’s hunts in and out by now. The look of fear on her face told him everything her needed to know about this Wendigo. Oakley Corral did not frighten easily. 

Every Hunter keeps one story to themselves. Maybe it’s too painful to talk about or too damn sad to meet the mood of a poker game or a beer session. Feral knew not to pry any farther.

The ringing stopped abruptly and a tired voice greeted Feral. 

“Feral,” Ozpin said, “Is the area finished inspection?” Feral wasted no time in relaying the state of the fence, the Grimm, and the possibility of the Wendigo. Through every word Ozpin gave no reply and made no sounds. 

“Oz, Oakley says we need to shut it down,” his eyes flicked to her and after a moment he continued, “and I’m in agreement.” On the other end, Glynda was staring into Ozpin’s eyes asking if she’d just heard Feral correctly. 

The man said nothing, imagining a snakelike grin on York’s face as he lead away young Hunters from the campus. He imagined the face of their Guild master in the Scorpion Valley as news was relayed to him; news that the Beacon had the fewest student’s this year AND a compromise in security. 

“Oz? Are you still there?” The sound finally snapped him loose and he began to murmur a reply. 

“So… you haven’t actually seen a Wendigo?” he said at last. Feral was too stunned to speak at first. 

“Feral? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah. I mean yes. Of course, I’m still here but, sir, I’m just confused why you’d ask me if I’d seen it. The fence is busted and the tracks are here, besides which Oakley is certain this is the same type she fought a few years back.” 

“But you haven’t seen it, Feral?” 

“No! I have not actually seen the bastard!” Oakley’s head snapped to him and she mouthed a question to him. He waved his hand at her as Ozpin replied. 

“In that case please secure the fence and sweep the forest for this Grimm, whatever it might be.” Feral could imagine the screaming match if Oakley had called though he felt close to shouting at Ozpin himself. 

“Headmaster, if it was only more Ursa or Beowolves out here I’d be with you,” he ignored Oakley’s scowl, “but something walked through the fence and its roaming our woods.” 

“I understand your concern Feral,” Ozpin didn’t raise his voice, but the irritation became pronounced in each syllable, “but circumstances are more complicated than normal this year.” He inhaled deeply and continued. “You have a little over two hours before they launch. I trust you and Oakley’s talent. You can follow the tracks and neutralize the threat.”

“Ozpin, it’s too dangerous to send the kids in here right now!” 

“It always is, Feral. Let Oakley know what I’ve told you and sort this out. Call me back if you have a guess as to where it is. We can proceed from there.” Feral looked over to Oakley, who had wandered a few paces away to smoke in peace.

Ozpin continued. “I don’t have to tell you to keep this quiet, do I?” Feral placed his hand on a tree trunk and gripped it tight, cracking the bark with his considerable strength. 

“We can’t even give them a warning, Ozpin? They’re going into this blind?” Whatever Ozpin would’ve said was canceled by a sharp whistle rang from Oakley’s lips. 

A line of black shapes was emerging from the woods through the broken fence, crawling out to reveal themselves as Beowolves. Oakley grit her teeth, took aim and fired, the closest Grimm’s head vanished in a burst of flame. 

“Ozpin. Something’s come up. We’ll… call you back.” Feral said, drawing a chain from his waist and readying the large hook at its end. Another target fell as Oakley’s rifle barked again. 

“Contain that too.” Ozpin said. Click.


	10. Test of Mettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azeban is launched along with her apprentice classmates into the fray of a woods filled with monsters. Despite some initial victories, she will learn the hard way that death from the Grimm has taken many surprising forms.

The cliffs reminded Hesh of home. Everything seemed to remind of him home all the sudden. While his fellow students stretched, meditated, and took practice swings at the air on the cliff face over Emerald forest, he'd finished his warm up early and wandered over to the edge to take in the view.

The forest was no less impressive than it had been from the airship but without a barrier of glass its presence was greater.

"See anything interesting?" his head turned to the voice, Azeban's grin displayed a pair of pronounced canines. Without her crimson shaw, Hesh could see how she managed to carry his trunk so easily.

Her arms were earthy brown bands of muscle girded by dyed vambracers crossed over a red leather jerkin. Her loose pants had been traded in for soft maroon breeches with hip and ankle armor.

"So is all the red a personal choice or just the style where you come from?" Hesh asked with a wry grin. Azeban socked the grey pauldron on his right shoulder and gestured to his own armor.

Gray boots, pants, and cuirass covered the young man's body while he held a matching cavalier cap in his left hand. Only the Finalword's red sheathe and the single crane feather in his hat's band broke the pattern. From side of his belt a short bayonet was secured in leather.

"It's called High Crimson after all," she said, "we all have a special place in our hearts for the color. What's your excuse?" Hesh could've told her the truth. Since the first of his family saw the discolored rock face to the Salt Cliff's tallest peaks, every Crane had taken their name from the somber and unassuming color.

Their love for it predated even the color war. He was the seventh to be called Hessian, and if she opened up a history book on Vale she'd find an ancestor of his dressed from head to toe in the same soft shade he wore now.

"The only color they had left in stock," he said with a shrug. Azeban knelt to the sparse grass of the dusty peak and sat to take in the view. Hesh joined her and the two friends watched the treetops swaying in the Summer breeze, evaluating their battleground.

"It's a beautiful forest," Azeban said, "not as big as High Crimson, but few places in the world are. Plus, the trees are close together," Azeban said with a giddy grin, "so it'll be a cinch to move around the way I do."

"It'll be all new stuff for me. Forests at the Salt Cliffs never get this dense," Hesh said. "Everything is made of ugly little trees, bushes really, in swampy marshlands. Not a pretty sight." Azeban looked up and studied his face, finding his jaw clenched too tight and noticing that his eyes weren't fixed on the forest but some distant object she couldn't fathom.

"You're homesick aren't you?" she said and Hesh kept his gaze fixed on the so she wouldn't see his eyes widen. He needed to bury it all today if he was going into battle: the anxiety, the anger, and the specter of guilt that had hovered behind him since he left his bedroom in the dead of night.

"It's normal to be homesick, Hessian," she went on, "I was just thinking to myself this morning that I miss the sound of my mom yawning. Isn't that strange?" She began to draw a redwood into the rain-starved dirt and searching for the right words to ease her friend's sadness.

"I mean, every morning she gets up earlier than me and the rest of my brothers to check in with the other families or get a head start on things. She always lets out this same great big yawn. Real loud at first and it has three tones each time. Isn't that weird?" She moved her hair out of her face and imitated it but Hesh didn't laugh or comment like she'd hoped.

"Anyway," she finished her picture, "all I mean is that missing home is…well you get it. Say, what do your parents do, Hessian?"

"Hesh," he replied, tight-lipped.

"What?" The boy put his cavalier cap on rubbed his face with a sigh and a loud cleansing sniff. He turned to her, his eyes in shadow from the brim, and managed a smile.

"Call me 'Hesh'", he said, "all my friends do." So it's his parents he doesn't want to talk about it. She wouldn't pry but her curious nature persisted and she resolved to pursue the mystery at a later time. For now, she settled for nodding.

"Alright, 'Hesh'. Ha! I like that. 'Hesh'!" She closed her fist around her dust picture of the red wood and stood up. Before he had a chance to stop her, she swiped his hat off with her free hand.

"Lean forward," she said. He squinted at her but obeyed and presented the wavy length of his brown hair to her. She noted the ribbon tying the tail of his hair together, giving him a colonial appearance, before sprinkling some of the dirt on his scalp.

"Hey!" he whined, shooting up and rubbing his hand through his hair. Azeban laughed and showered her own black hair with the rest of the dirt and shook clouds of it from her head like a dog. Hesh looked at her like she was insane and she handed his hat back.

"Its good luck," she promised, "my grandmother always did it before going into the wilderness on a hunt. She said it was about humility and, well, something else I don't remember." Hesh placed his hat on and adjusted it to keep the sun from his eyes. A girl in a black coat splashed with red whistled at them and Azeban whispered a swear that Hesh didn't hear.

"Hey, ringtail!" she yelled, drawing more attention than was desired, "Keep score and we'll see who's the better Huntress!" Azeban gave her a thumbs-up and smiled, dropping it as the girl went by.

"Friend of yours?" Hesh asked.

"No." The approach of Ozpin and Goodwitch took the attention of all assembled. The Headmaster looked thinner in the face and Glynda had forced him to don sunglasses to hide the bags under his eyes.

"Everyone, please take your places on the marked pads," Ozpin said, "I have a few words to say before the selection begins."

"Yes, of course! Gather round kids. This is a day to celebrate!" Glynda looked over her shoulder. York Duchy was dressed in a white suit with an obnoxious pink shirt, his hair was turned dark with gel.

Between his smirking lips was a large smoking cigar, the same one she'd seen him put out the day he arrived and she told him of the school's health policies. It took all the training of her years as an educator not to flick her wrist and send him soaring off the cliff.

"Hunter Duchy," she said evenly, "I'll remind you that there's no smoking on campus." York slid the cigar between his teeth and puffed like a steam engine. He ambled up to the Hunters and watched the kids line up at their positions, then strutted over to the cliff's edge to stare off into the forest bellow.

Years of acting as a spotter for his team hadn't left him yet, and with a few moments of concentration he found the rustling trees and flocking birds that marked a stomping Grimm. A roar echoed over the treetops until it reached the Cliffside as a soft murmur. York croaked a laugh around his stogie.

"Well, Dust and damnation Oz," he said, "glad to see you're still making them fight real Grimm!"

"York if you don't put that out this minute-" Glynda coughed as he blew smoke straight into her face. He grinned with tobacco stained teeth and cast his eyes on the crop of new Hunters once more.

"You'll give me a detention, Ms. Goodwitch? Make me write lines on a chalkboard?" His laugh was cut off as the cigar was ripped from his mouth by an unseen force.

It hovered in the air next to Goodwitch's face as she raised an eyebrow at him, then imploded into a ball of burning paper and soared over the edge of the cliff. He sneered at her and gave an apologetic shrug as Goodwitch removed her glasses to clean them of any residue from his smoke.

"We have zero tolerance for smoking on this campus, York." She carefully placed her glasses on and looked down her nose at him.

"Interrupt this selection at your own peril," she said and turned on her heel to the join the Headmaster where he stood before the students.

"What in the world would the Hunters do without you, miss?" York shouted after her and his face became pinched. He glanced back at the students and noticed many heads whipping away from his face in quick succession.

Geat wanted the low-down on any valuable additions to Haven in case the year ended outside Beacon's favor, but York wasn't impressed by anyone yet and the thought of going back empty handed was starting to make him grumpy. He shooed the on looking children off with a few gestures of the hand and began fishing into his pocket for another cigar as he stormed off in search of a place to smoke.

"Students," Ozpin said, steadying himself on his cane, "you have each spent years honing your skills to become effective warriors. While each of you preformed adequately at the entrance exam, now is your chance to display how you can combine your abilities in a live combat environment." A few students shuffled their feet or shared empty looks.

Rhod rested his hammer on his shoulder, standing a head taller than his peers and armored by hazard yellow jumpsuits overlaid with odds and ends of modified mining gear.

The equipment's design was from the days when Atlas was still a landscape of strip mines and frontier towns. A normal hard hat with a headlamp and metal armor splashed with canary paint.

It was a crude outfit to be certain but he'd spent all Summer designing it and testing its effectiveness against the pockets of Morlocks inhabiting old mining shafts abandoned throughout the countryside near Ainnis-Cloch.

His face was placid but underneath the armor and slabs of muscle, Rhod's heart was beating faster as the moment of truth grew closer, and he was smiling wide in spirit.

"Regarding the point of this selection," Glynda took over, "at Beacon our tradition has been, for centuries, the formation of teams consisting of four apprentices. These four are grouped together from a pair of partners.

Each group is led by a student chosen by the faculty based on their performance today." Azeban heard Xan hawk and spit from down the line. "You aren't meant to know the credentials we grade you on, so work to succeed in your objective in whatever way feels natural to you."

"Partners are formed in a different manner," Ozpin interjected as he prepared for the annual reactions to his next words, "simply put, the first student you make eye contact with in the Emerald Forest will be your partner for the next four years." The silence was finally broken by hushed exclamations. Hesh subdued his reaction by gripping the hilt of his sword. That's how they determine partners?!

"This," Glynda spoke louder to quell the chatter, "is a method that all alumni have undergone and flourished through. It is in keeping with the oldest traditions of the Hunter order, which encourages the cohesion of different warriors through prolonged combat experience."

And now, she thought, is when I would present Oakley and Feral as an example of this. She hadn't seen them all morning and was beginning to wonder what on earth was keeping them, the pair who she hadn't seen late for a meeting once.

"Moving onto the selection itself," Ozpin said, "your objective is a small collection of ruins at the north end of the forest." His mouth went dry as he calculated the distance between the fence breach and the ruins once more. He'd been telling himself all morning that the distance was great enough and the likelihood of them encountering the Wendigo was not so great as Feral or Oakley would speculate.

Merely thinking about it made his fingers twitch to check his phone, imaging it was vibrating in his pocket every time he moved his leg. Hope swelling and deflating in the brief second before his eyes confirmed that there was no report yet. His Hunters had not encountered the Wendigo. He refused to considered the possibility that they had met the beast and lost to it.

"Oz," Glynda whispered. The students hadn't quite caught on that something was wrong with their headmaster so he tried to make his voice seem dramatic as he continued.

"This will be a perilous test and you will need to meet every obstacle with your full attention or you will…" the words were ingrained in his mind from repetition over the years but he faltered on them this time.

"…you will die." Ozpin's grip on his cane was the only thing keeping his hands from shaking and Glynda held her tongue by the thinnest tether of control. He should tell her now and let her make the decision he was too conflicted to handle. He should call off the whole damn selection and tell York Duchy to go back to Haven and make a pit stop in hell.

"Hunt well and find victory," he finally said. Glynda quickly explained the trigger mechanisms they'd be launching from while Ozpin took the opportunity to walk away, getting out of sight from the students while maintaining a posture and stride that looked unsuspicious.

He took out his Scroll and called Oakley. The twang of her accent, from Roca far to the south, couldn't dull the edge of her tone as she answered him.

"Called to tell us the test is canceled?" She jabbed without remorse.

"Is it dead?"

"No we-" Ozpin gripped the top of his cane tight.

"Are you close to finding it at least?"

"We're trying, Oz. This bastard had all night to scour the forest and he doesn't leave the same kind of tracks as a Beowulf or a Goliath." The headmaster sighed and tried a different tact.

"I know you and Feral can handle this."

"Well it's not us you should be worried about, Oz!" Oakley's exhaustion was deflating her frustration and she appealed once more to Ozpin's sense of duty.

"Ozpin you can still stop this. To hell with whatever York will the Huntmaster," she pleaded, "we need to be cautious if we don't want to risk these kids getting trampled. It doesn't have to be this way."

He thought of burning tenements and a sky black with columns of smoke. His cane clattered to the sidewalk and he felt sick as he remembered the sight of all those Grimm pouring out of the subway. Oz the Great and Terrible hadn't turned away from the monsters when Mountain Glenn went to hell.

"This was exactly what they signed up to do. Kill Grimm. Hunt them and in turn be hunted."

Ozpin thought of each of them. All 32. He still wrote the acceptance letters by hand, each and every single one; because he believed they were worth the cramp his hand would have by the end.

They deserved a reception much better than the one he'd given them yesterday. They were going to learn that Hunters have the hardest lives of anyone in the world and he wouldn't shelter them.

When this selection was over he'd make this the best damn school they'd ever attended. He heard a staggered chorus of gas propulsion release as the students were launched into the heart of the Emerald Forest.

"Oakley," he said, "we owe them our best effort. I will not let them think they came all this way to learn that a school of Hunters grinds to a halt at the first sign of trouble. Adapting to dangerous circumstance is what this school's curriculum is made of." York was approaching with a long, lazy gait in the shape of Mr. Duchy.

"That's not their forest, Hunter. Remind them of that." He hung up before Oakley could respond. York grinned as he sauntered up and stood inches from him. Ozpin made no effort to hide the exhaustion in his face. He had lost the patience for that long ago, and needed what control he had left to not familiarize York's knees with his cane.

"Relax, Ozzie, just hitting the head," the hunter began with a puff of smoke, "though I did almost catch you talking to your two cronies, right? The cowgirl and the bald underachiever, is that right? We can't let the tykes scrape their knees out there, can we Ozzie?" Ozpin could've cracked the old worm's skull or simply insulted him. But he searched for any sign that his friend was still in that cynical shell.

"York. Our selection was one of the happiest moments of my life. I met my best friends in the Emerald Forest. That included you." York's smile shrank and disappeared. For a second Ozpin thought he might say something that wasn't a bitter sarcastic remark. Instead York shouldered by him in silence.

"They all seemed to land safely." Glynda faced the Emerald Forest and kept herself collected until Ozpin stood next to her.

"Is York with you?" she hissed.

"Not presently," Ozpin replied after a moment. She searched him but the sunglasses hid his eyes from her as much as the students.

"I won't bother asking what that was," she said, "because you won't tell me. I'll simply reiterate my question form earlier. Where are Oakley and Feral? They need to be down there in case something goes wrong."

"They're down there already, Glynda," Ozpin didn't look at her as he spoke. He resolved not to tell her for as long as he could, not to sidestep her wrath but to put off her look of betrayal.

For a decade, hey had been fighting together to keep Beacon's doors open, and all those trials had brought him to think of her as a trusted friend. The only friend he had left who didn't despise him.

"I was informed this morning that a few of our hidden cameras are down. For safety's sake, I wanted them on the ground as soon as possible." Goodwitch watched Ozpin carefully. She had a sixth sense for sniffing out lies, but Ozpin knew how to make himself unreadable if he wanted.

Not wanting to waste the effort, she left his words hanging between them. Ozpin listened as the heels of her shoes clacked toward the camera room, staying behind to survey the mess of green that lie below.

"Another year, another gathering of hopefuls we throw to the wolves." He adjusted the glasses on his nose to press more closely to his face as he turned for the camera room. "Best of luck to you all."

…

Azeban smiled wide as the forest below came closer to her at a gentle crawl. She was not falling, but gliding downward lazily like she was a balloon losing its helium. She had been making these kinds of descents to the ground since the day she'd slipped from the top of a High Crimson redwood tree and discovered her graceful powers.

Her mother told her how 'floating' the way she could was an ability born from the soul; the city people called them semblances nowadays, but every kingdom had once called them something different.

Learning that she was not the first in the family to float had disappointed her at first, it later only encouraged her to practice the power until her skills with it were remarkable.

While gliding downward, she found a perfect hole in the canopy to enter through and made herself a tad heavier as she aimed her legs for a landing. They planted on the higher branches of an oak tree and Azeban sighed with satisfaction as she breathed in the grass and leaf scent of the wilderness.

She could tell from her perch that the ruins were a far ways north from where she clung to the treetop, but instead of moving forward she turned to the east and leapt for the nearest branches. Hesh had been tossed somewhere east from where she'd landed, and if she kept up a fast pace they might meet before Hesh encountered anyone else.

Her determined strides were soon rewarded by a thin red shape that smacked the bridge of her nose as she made a wide leap. Stopping to rub the spot, she noticed the dangling shape that had slapped her was a recognizable color.

It was Hesh's sword, minus its wielder. The beautiful sheathe was unmistakable even while dangling from a branch rather than Hessian's waist. She imagined the rude landing he must've had if his blade had been tossed off his buckle.

"Looks like someone had a rough landing strategy," she giggled. She mused briefly on how silly her brothers often looked when they'd fallen through the canopies back home; their clothes decorated with leaves and confused bugs all glued to their bodies by sap. As the blade came loose from the treetop's grip, she nearly dropped it when her ears filled with a growl thundering from off in the far distance.

The sound was new to her, not comparing to any Grimm calls she'd heard in High Crimson. As the echo of the roar faded the forest's ambient noises returned and with them came a dawning realization. Hesh was nowhere nearby, but she was holding the Finalword. That meant the boy was running around among Grimm without a sword to support him.

"Let's get you back to your owner," she whispered to herself. A length of climbing weed made for a decent strap that kept the sword secured across her back and out of the way of her own weapon. She crept out to examine the trees nearby for broken twigs that could serve as a trail from Hesh's fall to the earth.

Another roar resounded nearby that was quickly followed by the ring of gunshots. Hesh has a gun she thought. Azeban leapt down to the lower branches and found her rhythm again going from tree to tree, pausing to listen for the rabble's direction.

The gunfight was happening right below her now and she could hear the familiar and furious huffing of an Ursa. Claws scraped the dirt and the gunshots stayed at a distance. Listening closely, she heard a warlike whooping that didn't resemble Hesh's voice. A bullet suddenly whizzed through the tree tops and nearly caught the tip of her right ear, causing her to yelp from surprise.

Whoever they are, their aim could use work. She leaped off the hardiest part of her branch and shot out into the battle. Staring down below, she found the white spine and black fur of a snarling beast.

She became light as a feather while unsheathing Dawnlander from her belt. Once out and at full length, she aimed the spiked tip of her pole's butt end toward the Ursa's back. The fray continued as she readied herself by clamping the glaive's pole between her legs and awaited the moment when a soft portion of flesh was below her weapon's spike tip. When the time was right, she released her semblance and began to fall at full speed.

Dawnlander landed on its mark before she did, sinking deep into the flesh of the creature's back until it was lodged as firm as a flagpole in the earth. The Grimm erupted in an agonized wail before it reared backward in a powerful motion that nearly bucked Azeban loose from her weapon, but she grappled it loyally as the beast began to flail its monstrous claws around in a desperate frenzy.

"Whoo hoo! We got 'em now!" Called a raucous voice followed by wild gunfire. Azeban could tell from the first word shouted that she'd run into Xan, and the thought made a portion of her will to fight shrivel. She nonetheless turned lighter to more easily cling to her weapon while trying to lurch it free.

As the beast threw its weight side to side the debris of tree trunks being slashed by its claws flew in Azeban's face and made her grip weaker. Before she fully lost ahold of her weapon a pair of gunshots went off and the Ura's muscles beneath her heals suddenly went lax.

She felt the beast begin to fall backward and quickly leapt away from being squished beneath its back. It tumbled to the ground and began to liquefy into a puddle of black ooze that reeked something foul. While collecting her weapon from the sizzling pile of mush, Azeban heard a pair of heavy boots squish the grass and goo as they swaggered up to her.

"Well, thanks for the assist, ringtail." Azeban's frowned deeper than she had in her whole life. She clenched her teeth and tried not to scream in frustration. Then a light flicked on in her brain. We haven't locked eye! Its doesn't count! The thought was short 's grinning face appeared in front her and she punched Azeban's shoulder, making the girl want to gouge her own eyes out.

"Xan…hi. I was getting worriedwe wouldn't see each other." She tried to grin but only managed to grit her teeth. The blonde apprentice in kind had a face that looked enlivened by adrenaline but not overjoyed by the sight of her faunus 'friend.' She rested her hands on an ox leather belt where her Hellsing Revolver jangled in its holsters as she shrugged her shoulders.

"Same here, girl. Glad I've finally met someone who knows a thing or two about fighting out here," she growled while glaring at a row of rustling bushes. Azeban felt her spirit shoot into the sky as she realized the bushes were rustling from another huntsman in training. She had to hold her hand over her mouth to conceal the size of her grin.

"You already have a partner!" Azeban shouted with glee before looking away from Xan's apologetic gaze.

"Sad but true," Xan mumbled. "Hey, pretty boy, get out here! The Grimm is dead, as is any chance for you to earn my respect." Azeban's ear twitched at the sound of metal clanking together and scraping against wood. Crawling out from the bushes was a block of steel armor that formed the set of a Mistral knight straight from a history text. The boy inside was rubbing his armored fingers at a bushel of tangleweed that was entwined within the crannies of his armor plates, snaring him to a nearby tree.

"Oh wonderful. I bet your ancestors are just beaming with pride right now," Xan said as she rolled her eyes. The figure in armor began to turn his head in random directions as he searched his surroundings.

"You found someone else?" a voice echoed from behind his helmet's visor. "Whoever you are, could you please help me get this helmet off?" Azeban approached and knelt down to get a better look. The boy peeked out of the helmet's slits with an apologetic look in his eyes.

Azeban grabbed his helmet by the edge of its cheek plate and lifted it carefully. Wavy wheat locks crowned a face that fit Xan's nickname to the point. He certainly was very pretty, making Azeban's earthly skin blush slightly. He had the look of a classical statue from Arche's historic quarter, but something about his eyes bespoke a more fragile nature, as if that statue was made fine china instead of marble.

"Thanks." He said the words like an apology before turning to glare at Xan. "She's been no help at all."

"Look who's talking," Xan moaned in annoyance, "I haven't seen you do anything but hide behind that shield of yours all morning!" The boy gasped and dove back into the bushes, leaving Azeban with his crest to admired the fine craftsmanship of the helmet.

"You're Mistralese too, aren't you?" The boy stood up with a large shield of banded bronze and posed like he was ready to give victory speech.

"Yes!" he blushed and cleared his throat, "Yes, I am. Perseus Bronze at your service, maim." Xan barked a laugh at his introduction.

"What the hell are you servicing to anyone? You gonna cower in the corner for her or something." The thought made her smile. "Tell me, how much do you charge for fetal position?" Xan laughed by herself as Perseus focused on Azeban. His eyes lit up as he took in her tail, ears, and the bracelets wrapped around her wrists.

"You're a…no way…you must be though! You're from High Crimson!" Azeban nodded and scuffed the ground, unsure of how to respond to his enthusiasm. She handed him his helmet back, noting that the whole of his armor set was hanging loose on his scrawny frame.

"Yea, that's correct," she said, "my name is Azeban Quinn. Are you Xan's partner?" A flood of relief that came when he nodded with a dramatic sigh, one that drowned the guilt she felt for him. Perseus' eyes lit up once more.

"Unless…hey, Xan, how about we trade partners?" Azeban's tail went rigid and she held herself back from decking the boy out sheer terror.

"A little unfair to throw me under the bus and weigh her down with you, pretty boy." Azeban could've laughed with joy.

"I meant you and her could be partners. It doesn't matter to me who I end up with, I just don't want to be your partner. Besides, you two are friends already, right?" Azeban began to bargain with herself in her head, frozen in her spot. This is a nightmare. I got knocked out fighting the Ursa and this is a bad dream I'm having.

"Tempting as that sounds," Xan began, "my answer's still the same. Rules are rules, pretty boy, we're stuck with each other. For now, at least."

"All you've done since I met you is complain about how this school works!" Perseus shouted and Azeban resisted voicing her agreement.

"That and kill Grimm while you hide in a bush, pretty boy," Xan said as she scoped out a new path through the trees, "ringtail here could tell you that I've got my eyes on a new academy come the year's end. I won't risk my chances of getting in because I couldn't tow the line for a few months." Xan whistled sharply and Perseus began to follow her with a suffering look on his face. He placed his helmet over his hair and fixed it so he could see.

"Nice meeting you anyway, Azeban" he said glumly. Xan spun around as she entered the woods, long tangleweed vines brushing her shoulders as she backpedaled.

"See ya around, ringtail," Xan called back with her old sense of joyfulness, "and make sure you keep score. I'm already at-" her words were transformed into a hacking cry as a bristly black vine snapped around her throat and constricted her wind pipe. Another restrained her good arm and they both began to wrench her up off the ground. As more black vines wormed around her wrists and ankles, Azeban watched Xan's brave blue eyes dart around in confused fear.

She herself was frozen, watching the brazened girl grow silent as she began to ascend past the branches. She looked like a broken string puppet being taken away from sight by a hurried puppeteer. She was shaken loose by the sound of Xan's partner shouting in terror.

"Up there!" Perseus called as he pointed to a tree branch above. Azeban's sharp eyes landed on a gathering of black bodies crouching together high up above them. Telltale faceplates bobbed as the Grimm began to chatter like primates, baring their fangs in high pitched squeaks. Azeban's Dawnlander gleamed in the daylight as she raced across the forest floor with its curved blade aimed at the monkey Grimm's tails.

"W-wait, Azeban!" Perseus' words missed her as she leapt into the air and spun. The blade sliced Xan loose from her captors and she fell to the ground like a ton of bricks.

The duo of monkey shaped Grimm she'd mutilated cackled at her while bounding off from tree to tree, followed closely by their untouched squad of copies. Azeban exhaled with a sense of relief that disappeared when she looked down at Xan and saw how the tails on her arm and throat were only growing tighter.

"They're Michelettos!" Perseus cried. "The tails don't vanish if you cut them off!" Xan's off hand moved to her Helsing, but the tails wrapping around her shrank a size smaller as they continued to stretch their ends farther apart. Her face became red between a few blinks of the eye, making Azeban begin to feel nauseous.

Trying to move quickly, Azeban took her Dawnlander's blade and shrunk the pole into a manageable grip before pressing the sharpened curve of her blade against the coil of tails. Xan could feel Azeban begin to push into the mess of black vine and the feeling was like being slowly done away with at a dull-bladed guillotine.

She tried to shake her head no, but without the room or strength to do so she looked like she was simply writing in pain. Perseus reached a hand out in a flash and clutched Azeban's shoulder, pushing it away.

"It's too dangerous! You could cut straight through her neck too!" Azeban blinked at him rapidly as she imagined herself forcing Dawnlander through Grimm and human flesh alike in a brisk and brazen motion, which made her suddenly recede.

Then what can we do? She asked the question with a look instead of pleading words as the situation continued to rob her of words. Xan's breaths were coming in slower, more ragged, gasps. Taking one glance at Xan's puffing face as tears streamed from her eyes turned to ice the blood of both students.

Azeban had come to know death well from High Crimson, as the life they lived there in the woods was far from easy. But if there had ever been an emergency like this one among her family, she had never been the one with the ideas. Sequoia and Sibosek could command the family with the stride and gull of generals, but she had always been simply a reliable soldier. Now she and these strangers were alone, and someone was dying in her arms.

Xan drew her gun from its holster with shaking hands, popping open the cylinder and digging her fingertips into the holes to free the bullets from their lock. Azeban didn't notice until she'd managed one loose and was trying to grip it in a firm grasp, but the tails on her arm suddenly curled around her another notch, and the bullet was nocked from her grasp.

Seeing what the girl had in mind, Azeban grasped the bullet herself. She extended a sharp claw hidden beneath her fingertip and dug free the bullets primer. Azeban gripped the capsule tight as it bled fire dust and dragged it across the flat of her glaive.

Red sparks popped and arced over her head, nearly singing her hair. She raised her weapon to the Grimm's tail like a torch and set it alight. After a few moments of burning the tails began to break away from their grip on Xan. Azeban pulled it away as it loosened, growling at it as the thing writhed like a stabbed snake.

She sat Xan up and coughing breaths were her reward but as torn and hard as they sounded Azeban nearly smiled to hear air filling the girl's lungs once more. Her smile fell when she saw the damage to Xan's neck, the fur and fire had left her an injury that looked like a red choker. Her semblance sparked gold and the skin began to heal slowly.

Xan wheezed and gestured for Azeban's blade. The girl complied and Xan pressed the searing hot steel against the second Micheletto tail until it slid off her arm.

"Thanks…" Xan coughed on the spit flooding her throat as she tried to right herself. "Thanks, Azeban." Azeban nodded a silent reply as she watched Xan's aura heal itself slowly.

When Perseus tried to help steady Xan from behind, she swung her shoulder off of his palm and gave him a scowl. Perseus saw her face and thought it looked angry as the Ursa they'd slain. He gave her space accordingly and Xan turned back to Azeban. "Point me after those little chimps, mate."

Azeban gave her best estimation, not bothering to argue against the action. Xan was out for blood and Azeban doubted she'd be dissuaded from hunting the Michelettos down. Perseus still offered a protest that made Xan practically spin in her seat. She stared at her partner with fire in her eyes as she stood tall, salvaging her remaining sense of pride.

"I never asked for your permission. Follow me or don't. I couldn't care less." Azeban watched the two apprentices disappear into the Emerald Forest in pursuit of the Grimm albeit one was much more timid as he went. She was alone once more and surrounded by the echoes of other battles.

She wondered how many were balancing on a knife's edge like Xan's had a moment ago. Xan's face, teary eyed and discolored, was still etched in her mind. She tried switching the face of Xan with other hunters who could have fallen to the tiny Grimm they'd hardly seen.

Azeban pictured the faces of students she'd seen in the locker room, of her own family had they been there, and eventually her own face. She swallowed and rubbed her throat. Feeling her fingers brush the strap on her shoulder, she remembered Hesh was still without his weapon, and suddenly his face was the one chocking in the grasp of a Grimm within her mind.

Running to a tree, she managed her way up to a higher elevation and started leaping from branch to branch again. As the waves of green leaves rushed past her in her stride, she thought of how they had never seemed so scary until now.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Monty Oum. You created a world meant for creative minds.


End file.
